


9 Pints

by tigbit



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Attempt at Humor, Biting, Bloodplay, F/M, Happy Ending, Human Rey (Star Wars), Ignores TROS, Mind Meld, Rey and Ben are switches so help me god, Roleplay, Slow Burn, Vampire Ben, Vampires, plot? I don't know her, porn studio au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:15:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 83,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21909568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigbit/pseuds/tigbit
Summary: She knew next to nothing, and Google was largely unhelpful. All of her searches (“vampire sex rules” and “vampire dos and don’ts” and one very self-indulgent “average vampire cock size big?”) linked her to dated top ten lists written by anyone other than an actual vampire.Twenty minutes of frustrated scrolling eventually led her to a supernatural dating forum. The website was horribly aged, but still active. Questions were tagged, which meant that it was easy to narrow down her search.Vampire, she clicked, andSex.--In which Rey gets suckered into shooting porn with one of Poe's pickiest vampire actors.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 3519
Kudos: 3856





	1. Chapter 1

Working with vampires meant tricky business. Especially when that business was porn. 

Not professional porn, by any means. Poe was one of the most charismatic friends she’d ever had, but he was allergic to proper planning. Last week they ran out of latex-free condoms. The week before that, he looked confused when Rey shook a tray with three de-crusted cucumber sandwiches and asked, “Where’s the rest of it?” 

“Hold on.” Tapping mute, he rested the phone against his cheek. “Where’s the rest of what?”

“The food!” Her voice climbed too high with panic. “You’re filming a dwarven gang bang in your basement. This—” she shook the tray again for good measure, “is going to start a riot. Number one: it’s too green. Number two: it’s not meat. Number three: it’s nowhere close to enough. Didn’t you call the caterer?”

He slowly pointed to the phone with his free hand. 

“ _That’s_ who you’re talking to?”

“I thought you said I needed to order a whole roasted pig?” 

“I said that _last week_. They’re going to finish filming in five minutes!”

Poe looked concerned for a grand total of two seconds. Then he clapped his hand on her shoulder, grinned broadly and said, “God, I’m glad I have you, Rey. Credit card is in my office.” 

She’d never run to the gas station quicker in her life. Thank fuck that dwarves were very on board with roller hot dogs and taquitos. She flew back into Poe’s converted garage with sweaty armpits only to interrupt an absolutely raunchy beer-pong tournament. By the time the winners were crowned, the dwarves had forgotten all about their delayed lunch. 

“I have the best ideas,” Poe crowed, because of _course_ he managed to placate hungry, horny dwarves. Of course he could pull off the impossible. 

Rey really needed to find a different source of income. 

It had all started as a favor. Poe was starting a new business and no one was shocked that it was porn. In a matter of days, he had successfully roped Finn into editing, Rose into shooting with a rented camera, and Rey into picking up the slack. Mostly she just spent time worrying. And quitting. She’d quit quite a bit. 

Frankly, she didn’t need the extra stress. She was still working on getting her Master’s (albeit slowly and with wildly diligent financial planning) on top of working part-time at the university gym on top of dog-walking for a few very sympathetic professors on top of Shipt and Lyft. Rey barely had time to breathe, much less patch up Poe’s bleeding trail of sex-fueled mistakes. Somehow, she did it anyway. 

But this was too far. 

“I hate vampires,” she whined. 

Poe’s face was illuminated by the glow of his laptop. Without moving his eyes from the screen, he said, “Untrue.” 

“Fine. I hate working with them. Do you not remember what happened the last time? Do you know how many times I had to wash those sheets?”

“I told you to buy new ones,” he said absently. She could tell he was looking at some kind of list: he had the annoying habit of clicking the down arrow instead of scrolling like a fully functioning adult. “You were the one who insisted they were salvageable.”

She plunged forward. “Vampires are picky.”

“You can’t fault someone for having a diet.” 

“And it’s awkward. They go all mind-meldy with whoever they bite.”

“Is that a technical term?”

“Every vampire I’ve ever met has been broody.”

“You _like_ broody.”

“It doesn’t matter what I like,” she said hastily. She wasn’t _ashamed_ of her taste in men; she just wasn’t proud. “I’m only warning you that I foresee myself coming down with a contagious illness the day you decide to shoot. And for the love of god, use the scroll wheel.”

The clicking stopped. His eyes broke away from the screen. “The what?”

“Goodbye, Poe.” She turned to leave. 

“Wait!”

She almost didn’t pause, but she was far too curious not to hear his counter-offer. The key to winning with Poe was disinterest. Too eager and he’d have her disinfecting dildos. If she could pretend to be unimpressed, he’d probably hand her a check. “Yes?”

“You remember the elfin maiden shoot?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You mean the time I had to peg Kaydel’s cousin because your brawny warrior forgot to check in with his probation officer?”

Poe clapped once, delighted. “That’s the one! You were a star.”

“You told Rose to shoot from the waist down. My _ass_ was the star. Hold on.” There was something suspicious about Poe’s eyes. They radiated a concerning amount of innocence. “You’re manipulating me. You want something.”

Even caught, Poe didn’t have the decency to look ashamed. “Here’s the thing.” 

“I knew it.”

“As you mentioned, vampires have a very particular palate.”

“Poe,” she warned. 

“I’ve got a guy that’s willing to sign a contract. An old buddy of mine, actually. There’s just one minor hold-up.”

Rey raised a hand, palm facing forward. “If you’re about to say that I should fuck a vampire because he’s never heard of _acting_ , you should save your breath.” 

Naturally, Poe was undeterred. “He’s only open to biting someone with a very specific blood type. And as the person in charge of maintaining our records base—” so _that’s_ why he’d been scrolling, “—you’re aware we keep everyone’s lab report on file. Including yours.” 

Rey cursed. Getting tested was mandatory in the industry. As someone who intended on spending her time behind sets and not on them, Rey hadn’t _needed_ a clean bill of health, but she wanted to keep her options open. Occasionally it had come in handy. She liked her body, she liked sex, she was one hundred percent aware of just how unglamorous porn could be, and she was—above all—broke. She’d stepped in on various shoots in the past. Never in any long-term capacity and never as a star, but often enough that Poe’s idea didn’t lack historical precedent. 

“…done this before, so I think it’s safe to expect profit. And I’m only thinking one bite. Maybe two. Just enough to sell it. Then everyone walks away happy.”

She dug the tips of her fingers into her temple and closed her eyes. The longer she looked at Poe’s face, the more tempted she felt to punch it. “You know how you always bring in radishes on Monday and how they’re always gone by Friday?”

“Yeah?” 

“You know who makes them disappear? Me. I _hate_ radishes. I’d rather soak a papercut in salt water. But I eat them anyway because I’m a grown-ass woman and food is food.” She opened her eyes again, suddenly weary. “Whoever this vampire is, he can pretend to enjoy someone else’s blood. Give him a bucket so he can spit it out. Or better yet, have him flash his teeth for the camera and film with some creative blocking. Pour a gallon of dyed corn syrup on her neck and call it a day.”

He was already shaking his head. “People aren’t that stupid. They’d never buy it.” 

“My grocery store only recently started leaving their Tide Pods unlocked. People are _absolutely_ that stupid.” 

“Not with porn, they’re not. Half the appeal is the bite itself. We’d catch hell if we tried to fake it. Not to mention….” He made a little stabby motion with two of his fingers, a clear _you know what I mean?_ that she returned with a frown. He let his hands fall. “Wait. You’ve fucked a vampire before, right?”

No. “Of course.”

Poe slowly rose from his seat. He walked around the desk until he could lean back against the front. A lawyer prepped for cross-examination. “Then you know how it works.”

“Absolutely,” she said, perhaps a bit too loudly.

His head cocked slightly to the right. “How blood and sex go hand in hand? They can’t help but bite. It’s in their nature.” 

“Who says they have to bite a person?” 

“Uh, biology? Last I checked, pillows don’t have veins.” 

Unhelpfully true. Before he could ask anything else, she dodged. “Who is this guy, anyway? If he’s this demanding now, aren’t you worried about what will happen when he signs? He could be a raging asshole.”

“He _is_ a raging asshole.” Poe almost said it fondly. “And I’m not sure demanding is the right word. You didn’t bat an eye when the merman demanded his ionized water and kelp. Or when the dyrad insisted she fuck on a specific strain of Kentucky bluegrass. The vampire only asked for one thing.”

“Me!”

“Not you, specifically. Just your blood.”

“Same difference,” she mumbled. 

“Except not really. Look,” he stepped toward her, settling one hand on each of her shoulders. “You don’t have to say yes. I could tell you were lying, before. Fucking a vampire is…” He seemed to waffle between twenty different words, “an experience. And it’s not for everyone. But speaking as someone who has? I’d do it again for free.” 

That wasn’t saying much. Not from a man who’d fucked a rusalka, almost drowned, and woke up in a hospital only to call it a “thoroughly repeatable joy-ride.”

While she’d dealt with the aftermath, she hadn’t actually seen the last vampire in action. She’d watched porn of her own, though, and tried to remember what she’d heard. The biting wasn’t as intimidating as the connection that bloomed afterward—some diluted version of ancient vampire magic that made it easier for them to have a second helping. A temporary thing, but widely different from person to person. Impossible to truly anticipate. 

On the other hand, she was endlessly curious. She hadn’t been fucked in half a year. And hadn’t Poe mentioned something about broodiness? Her sad, sad weakness? 

What the hell. 

“I won’t do it for free,” she said firmly. 

Poe gave a cheerful hoot of triumph. “As you shouldn’t. Now come sit down. Let’s talk numbers.”

\--

Rey trudged into her apartment ten hours later, thoroughly exhausted. She’d made bank on her last Lyft ride of the evening, but ended up on the opposite side of the city. Halfway back, her phone rang. 

It was Poe. His picky vampire wanted to sign sooner rather than later, and in a rare moment of foresight, Poe asked if she’d be willing to meet tomorrow to hash out a plan for their shoot. Rey didn’t have a contract of any kind, so rules had to be established. Boundaries delineated. After, they’d hash out the bones of the scene—where they’d start, which positions and angles might work best, a general mood. 

“The market’s _saturated_ with hardcore,” he’d said, his voice tinny on her shitty Bluetooth. “How do you feel about romantic? Something softer. We could use the same set from the pixie shoot. I swear to god I had the blanket dry cleaned.” 

“The one that shed all over my car?” She peeked in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see tufts of glittery white. It had taken her _ages_ to get it all out. “I don’t know. I guess I’m open. You think your vampire’s going to go for that?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

She shrugged, then realized he couldn’t see. “White sheets, white blankets, fake white fur. Feels a little antithetical, given the usual vampire aesthetic. He’s probably expecting far more black.” 

“Nah,” Poe said, brimming with certainty, “Vampires dig white. Kind of a power trip for them, seeing the blood.”

“Right,” she said faintly. 

“The cameras wouldn’t pick it up, either. The viewers go wild for that shit.” He paused. “Hey. What about auctioning off the sheets once the video goes live? Too medieval?”

She cringed. “Too fucked up. On multiple levels. You are _not_ selling my post-fuck bloody sheet like it’s abstract art.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Speaking of art, do you remember what Rose wanted for her birthday? And should we plan something? By that I mean: should you plan something?” 

Rey sighed, and the conversation officially took a more familiar path. 

Home now, she was tempted to flop into bed. She’d finished her homework during her shift at the gym. In between Shipt deliveries she’d managed to stock her own fridge and pick up the reinforced headboard Poe had sent to the fabricator. A light jog had happened at some point. She must have remembered to eat, too: there was a thick stain of yogurt smeared directly between her breasts. So lovely. 

Sleep felt imperative, but not as imperative as research. They weren’t actually filming tomorrow, but Rey wanted to have informed opinions. She knew next to nothing about vampire sex. 

She rescued her laptop from the couch. 

Google was largely unhelpful. All of her searches (“vampire sex rules” and “vampire dos and don’ts” and one very self-indulgent “average vampire cock size big?”) linked her to dated top ten lists written by anyone other than an actual vampire. 

Twenty minutes of frustrated scrolling eventually led her to a supernatural dating forum. The website was horribly aged, but still active. Questions were tagged, which meant that it was easy to narrow down her search. _Vampire_ , she clicked, and _Sex_. 

Eleven hundred entries. Very respectable. Feeling encouraged, she scanned the first page. 

_> >about to have my first period since we started dating. vamp boyfriend says he’s excited to try oral, but like…what’s the mindset? is he eating me out? or just eating? _

_> >Curious about the effect of diet on blood flavor. She swears she can’t tell a difference, but she almost puked mid-thrust the night I ate curry. _

_> >I don’t even want to type this but…….dick biting? _

_> >Never knew a vampire before my bf. He’s the absolute sweetest but totally struggles to tell me what he likes in bed. Where should I start?? I learned the hard way about ncb… :( _

Rey frowned at her screen. Ncb? She quickly opened up a new tab and reloaded the same website. Thankfully, someone was once just as clueless. 

_> >Totally new to the site. Great tips so far, thx! But what’s ncb? _

_> > >>glad you’re here. yeah…we should prob make a dictionary at some point. but it’s non-corporal biting—when your vamp’s aroused but bites something other than you. **not** recommended._

Rey scanned the rest of the response, feeling mildly alarmed. 

Simply put and utterly obvious: vampires had fangs for a reason. Water was wet; sometimes lube just wasn’t enough; and vampires bit their partners during sex. _Not_ biting invited a whole host of problems. Pain seemed to be the most prevalent. Anger. The closer they were to biting, the louder their instincts roared. Living in the modern world had done a lot to teach them restraint (Rey couldn’t remember the last recorded attack) but evidently vampires were never closer to being vampires than when they fucked. 

She kept reading.

If they knew what they were doing, biting ranged from painless to pleasurable. Blood-sucking could be as casual and impersonal as shaking a hand to deeply intimate. The experience itself depended on quite a bit: the vampire’s mood, how recently they’d fed, the level of attraction, body chemistry, how comfortable the blood donor was with being bitten in the first place, and—for reasons Rey did not fully understand—ambient lighting. 

One of the few things she already knew was that biting initiated a temporary two-way bond. Additional research made it frustratingly clear that there was a wide variety of variation. Some reported a keener sense of their partner’s emotions; some said it was nothing more than an annoying, shared thirst. 

Rey stopped herself from worrying. There was nothing for it: the biting had to happen. That the bond existed was unfortunate, but she couldn’t find a single testimonial that claimed it lasted for more than a few hours. The only exception was couples. The more a vampire bit a particular individual, the harder it was to scrub away the connection. 

At least she didn’t have _that_ to worry about—even if a porn set wasn’t the unsexist place to meet someone, Rey didn’t fancy the idea of dating a vampire. One werewolf in undergrad had been enough for her to swear off supernaturals entirely. 

Either widely idolized or feared by the general public, most of them had glaring personality defects. Narcissism ran rampant. Arrogance. As a whole, they tended to be a possessive lot—hoarding fame or fortune, and jealously guarding their mates. Chances were that her vampire would only be more of the same.

There was just one last thing she needed to do. 

Opening up an incognito window, she found some porn. 

She picked Poe’s site, mainly because she didn’t have to pay for an account. They’d shot a few vampire scenes in the past. She clicked on the one titled _Carlos and Amanda._

There wasn’t a script. No specific lines to say or marks to hit. The set and costumes were incredibly over the top (Rey decided she would sue Poe if he tried to make her suck cock on bedazzled kneepads), but the couple had chemistry and Finn had done an excellent editing job. Even though Rey knew they’d stopped dozens of times for close-ups and adjustments, the finished product looked smooth.

It started with kissing: Amanda nipping at Carlos’ neck, the barest hint of fang scratching his skin. His moans were a bit too forced at the start—only noticeable because there was a _marked_ change as soon as she grabbed his cock. 

Rey skipped through the rest of the heavy petting and the endless rounds of oral. There was something in particular she wanted to see. 

Amanda’s fangs had grown too long to keep behind her lips. She’d progressed to nipping, Rose zooming in on the indented-but-not-broken skin as Carlos whined about needing to come. That, apparently, was Amanda’s cue to turn his head, open wide, and bite. 

The effect was instantaneous: Carlos’ unimpressive moans ratcheted up to a bold scream. 

Rey _felt_ it. Her cunt throbbed in sympathy and desire. 

_Us_ , her brain bleated, _That’s us, that’s going to be us, we’re going to be bitten, that’s going to be us. Us._

She lost her focus. Amanda painted a pretty red picture on Carlos’ thighs and Rey let her laptop slide to the floor because what the fuck had she done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Updates will be shorter than my usual (3k instead of 5-6k), but I hope you still enjoy! The goal is to write something light and mostly humorous in the wake of TROS. If any angst sneaks in, it will be temporary. Right now I think we just need to remind ourselves that we can create any ending we want and that endings can be happy. 
> 
> I'm [@talltig](https://twitter.com/talltig) on Twitter.


	2. Chapter 2

After a horrifying dream in which she arrived late to Poe’s meeting, pissed off the vampire, and paid penance by gnawing on a raw rabbit heart, Rey found it difficult to go back to sleep. Sighing at the clock, she gave in to paranoia and decided it wouldn’t be the worst thing to arrive a bit early. Strange guests were always wandering around Poe’s house; he wouldn’t think anything of seeing Rey in his kitchen. 

The business had yet to bore him, which meant that it was largely successful. Poe’s house was a old, massive, multi-story inherited thing, but he was on the cusp of needing to expand beyond its walls. Sets took up space. Plus, it was always slightly awkward to walk by photos of family and friends knowing a werewolf was knotting a milkmaid down the hall. 

But Poe seemed to like it. “Actors come here and know I’m not bullshit,” he was fond of saying. “It’s always nicer to work somewhere that feels like home.”

Rey always sighed but never argued. 

She had her own set of keys and let herself in quietly. Someone had left the TV on; she saw a glimpse of Tom Hanks philosophizing about chocolate before she turned the corner. 

“Oh, hey!” Rose smiled up at her from the kitchen table. “Didn’t expect to see you. Want some coffee?”

“Thanks. Yeah, I’ll—” Rey turned to the right cabinet and, finding it empty, swiveled to the sink. She picked up the nearest mug and tried to find soap. “Have you been here all night?”

With a groan, Rose nodded into her hands. “Just survived a shoot from hell. The kelpie insisted on fucking his wife. Which wouldn’t have mattered, except she’s breastfeeding. Which also wouldn’t have mattered, except their kid was an unholy hellion and kept crawling onto set for boob.”

Rey stopped washing. “Wait. The kid was here?”

“Yeah, part of the deal. Didn’t want to pay for a babysitter. Whole reason we agreed to shoot at night. Shouldn’t have been a problem. It’s not like he was supposed to be in the room.”

“I…see.”

“Except that she’s lactating, right? And her husband clearly had a thing for her tits. He kept forgetting his lines and swallowing her nipple, instead. Dude couldn’t get enough.”

Rey raised up her soapy hands. “No judgment.”

Rose mimicked her movement. “Zero fucking judgement. They were nice looking tits.” She let her hands fall to the table. “But there’s a time and a place. She was supposed to accuse him of fucking the pool boy and then _he_ was supposed to punish her with his fat kelpie cock. That was the script. There were like eight lines. It took us eight hours.” 

“Eight _hours_?”

Rose nodded sadly. “On and off. Some breaks for food, some for sanity. My vagina would have been permanently closed for business, but apparently selkies are made of sterner stuff.” She suddenly brightened. Even the bags under her eyes seemed to melt away. “Are you here to meet Ben?”

Finally: a clean cup. Rey wandered to the coffee pot, frowning. “Who?”

“The vampire. Finn told me all about him.”

Which made sense, given that they lived together. Still, Rey felt a little miffed. Wasn’t it obvious that she was entitled to relevant gossip? “How much do you know?” 

Rose’s phone chirped. Her eyes lit up in a way that made Rey suspect Finn. She started to type before she remembered that Rey had asked a question. “Not much. Finn wasn’t a huge fan.” Her thumbs attacked the screen. “Worked with him, apparently.” 

Rey waited for more, but the only sound was the click-click-click of Rose’s keyboard. Her eye threatened to twitch. “So he’s an asshole?”

“From what Finn’s told me, seems like that was a prerequisite for the company.” More typing, then a whoosh of a sent message. Rose looked a little triumphant. “Does it matter, though? Good sex with an asshole is still good sex.”

“What makes you think it’s going to be good sex?”

“Because I _saw_ him,” she said, like that was enough. 

Rey held her coffee cup tighter. “Here?”

“Yeah. He arrived late last night. Doesn’t live close, apparently. Didn’t you see him when you walked in? I think he bunked on the couch.” 

Rey frantically rewound her memory. There _had_ been a mountainous-sized lump of blankets on the couch. She’d just figured it was further proof of Poe’s abject refusal to fold anything bigger than a napkin. 

But according to Rose, it had been a person. And that person had been a vampire. _The_ vampire. Ben. 

Had he smelled her as she walked by? Were his vampiric nostrils offended by discount Dove bodywash? Most supernaturals were light sleepers outside of their territory; was that why he hadn’t stirred? _“No thanks,”_ he probably thought. _“I don’t fuck anyone who buys soap with a coupon.”_

What a snob. 

“Did you talk to him?” Rey asked.

“A few words.” The ping of a phone, and Rose tapped on her screen only to flush and immediately slap it face down on the table. She cleared her throat. “He didn’t seem too bad. Kind of reminded me of that centaur we booked in June.”

“The one with the Prince Albert or the one who kept sneezing?”

“The pierced one. Jesus.” Rose looked mildly offended. “You think I’d let you film with a guy passive-aggressive enough to say he was allergic to mediocrity?” 

Rey relaxed. If memory served, he’d had tattoos, too. Had given her some great advice about cooking chicken with a dry rub. Not that they’d had much time to talk—he’d been professional, interested in being as effective as possible to save time on reshoots. If Ben were anything like him, maybe the situation wasn’t so dire. 

“When’s your meeting?” 

“Not soon.” Not even close.

“Well, I can’t stay much longer.” Rose started to check her phone before remembering whatever it was she was trying to hide. Her fingers scratched absently at the phone case like it would help the itch abate. “But we can kill some time. Tell me what you’re planning for my surprise party.”

Apparently Poe had told her, apologized for telling her, and promptly told her again ten minutes later. 

Sighing, Rey pulled out a chair. 

Time flew swiftly. Rose was the newest friend in Rey’s circle, but they’d bonded almost immediately. Working with Poe had that effect. For every last-minute cancellation Rey had to frantically reschedule, Rose had ten stories about a near-catastrophe on set. She really had the hardest job out of the group. Rey couldn’t help but respect someone who was expected to tell performers with very pointy teeth that they couldn’t come, not yet, and could they maybe drool a little less? Moan a little louder? Post-work drink sessions had become a sort of bonding therapy. 

By the time Rose left, the meeting was less than an hour away. Rey knew that sitting alone in a kitchen would do nothing for her nerves (especially when the source of them might be snoozing nearby), so she tried to be proactive. 

_You could meet him now_ , her brain offered. _Embarrass yourself privately. Who knows? There’s a chance he’ll take a good look and decide your veins aren’t worth the trouble. You’ve never met a nurse who couldn’t give you a bruise._

Emboldened by this chance at happy news, she readied herself to leave the kitchen. 

“Hi,” she practiced saying, checking her clothes for stray coffee stains. “Hello, I will be your future blood donor and sexual congress participant. Would you like to have a pre-meeting meeting? Possible topics could include you telling me where you tend to bite. It’s only that I’m ticklish, and my research told me there’s a pretty big vein in my thigh and the last time someone tried to kiss my scar, I donkey-kicked them in the skull. I understand the goal is for you to ingest blood, not lose it.” 

She cut herself off. If the universe was listening, perhaps it was better not to share any ideas. 

No, she wouldn’t let herself sound manic. She’d find him, shake his hand, and channel professionalism. Ask about…something. How he’d met Poe. His hobbies. People usually liked her crazy Lyft stories; she could tell him about the swing dancer and his pet pig. 

Infused with confidence, she stepped into the living room. 

He was gone. 

\--

Poe had forgotten all about the meeting. That much was clear. After waiting for ten minutes in his office—alone, save for the very practical notebook she held in her lap—Rey decided to investigate. 

As far as she was aware, there were no scheduled shoots for the day. Worryingly, that tended to mean Poe was out of the house. 

She wandered downstairs to the main floor, peeking her head back into the kitchen to confirm that Rose hadn’t returned. Someone had tidied—the cups were gone from the sink, the cast-iron on the stove freshly oiled. There was a faint, lingering energy to the space that suggested Rey had only just missed the person responsible. 

She couldn’t bring herself to check Poe’s room. If he wasn’t there, odds were that _someone_ was, and Rey had no interest in seeing that much naked skin before noon. 

No luck in the living room. Or the set with the library. She checked the bathrooms for good measure, but only managed to find a golden, eerily long pube on the faucet 

(Sadly, this was not the most upsetting location she’d found body hair in Poe’s house.)

A quick glance outside showed a vacant patio. She moved closer to the window to check the pool, but saw nothing. Not even a lone noodle. 

“What the shit,” she muttered, because it was definitely today. She’d set two different alarms. 

Calling him seemed like the only remaining option, which meant moving until she found the single square inch of space benevolent enough to offer reception. It rang, and Poe’s phone began blaring from the basement. 

Rey frowned. There were only sets and storage in the basement, which was why she hadn’t bothered to check. But there was no mistaking his ringtone: it was an obnoxious, ear-clutching sort of noise that she’d specifically programmed to get his attention. Though she should have known better. She’d once seen him nod off during a troll’s orgasm. 

She stomped down the steps, the annoying ring now blending with something that sounded suspiciously like gunfire.

“Would you _stop_?” an unfamiliar voice growled. “I’ve already told you what to do and it’s not that.” 

“I’m a leader, Solo. I don’t follow the senseless demands of tyrants.”

“We’re on the same fucking team!”

“Sounds like something a tyrant would say.” 

The call had gone to voicemail, but the phone still dangled from Rey’s loose fingers. They could not possibly be serious. 

The gaming set was at the furthest end of a long hallway—mostly because it was fully functional and Poe insisted on playing as much as he possibly could as far as he possibly could from anyone who could possibly interrupt him. He had a habit of loudly voicing his intent to check in on Rose, walking past Rose with a thumbs-up, and disappearing into a world of pixelated violence until Rey muscled him out of the room. 

She shouldered the door open, unsurprised to see exactly what she saw. 

There were two gaming chairs, though only one was occupied. He was huge—the black of his Henley blending in with the black of the leather, the top of his head a good quarter mile higher than the neck rest. His hair was long, almost shaggy. Rey could see slivers of a pale neck and the tips of prominent ears through the dark strands. In contrast to Poe, he was almost wholly unmoving. His thumbs flicked at his controller with economical, calculated precision. 

Poe, of course, was standing in a slight crouch. He wasn’t half-bad at gaming, but he’d never broken the habit of believing that frantic button-smashing made a difference. He leaned when his character leaned; he shifted sideways when peeking around corners. 

And he always smiled when something exploded. “Got it!” The room was bathed in a momentary wash of orange and red. “Told you I could!”

“That was _our base_ , you absolute—I quit.” 

“Hey!” Poe protested when the screen grayed out. _Connection lost_. “We’re not finished.”

The stranger—Ben, she belatedly realized—swiveled in his chair. Rey saw a strong, straight nose as he turned in profile. Dark eyes. “ _I’m_ finished,” he said firmly, and tossed his controller into the spare seat. “Besides, someone’s here.”

Poe looked ready to continue the argument, but spared a glance over his shoulder. Seeing Rey, he did a double-take. A genuinely pleased smile stretched across his face. “Rey! We were wondering when you’d show up.”

She blinked at him. Then she pulled up her phone. Swiped to unlock. 

His smile dimmed. “Rey? Are…” He took a step towards her. “What are you doing?”

“I’m waiting.” 

The vampire did not speak, but she could tell he was paying attention. 

“For what?” Poe asked, confused. 

“For your apology. Apologies, actually. By this point, I think I’ve earned a few. Figured I might as well time you.” She wiggled her phone, glad he couldn’t see the screen. She’d tapped blindly. The cartoon sunshine on her weather app grabbed for an umbrella. “See how long it takes for you to make it past the first ten.” 

His brow creased. “Is this about the game?” He looked back at the TV. 

“It’s not about the game,” Ben said, amused and low.

But not low enough. Something in Rey snapped. “Correct!” she said loudly. “It is in fact _not_ about the game. Well, it—it might tangentially be about the game. No, Poe,” she raised a palm when he started to hand her the controller, “I do not want to play. I want to have our meeting. Our meeting that was scheduled to start twenty minutes ago. In your office.”

Poe looked like he’d finally been handed a key to a locked door. “You didn’t see the note?”

Shit. “What note?”

“The note I left in the office. I said we’d be in the basement.”

“There wasn’t…” She’d even checked. Nothing on the door or the free chairs. “Where did you leave it?”

“On my computer. On a post-it.” 

Whatever guilt had started to fester was washed away in a cleansing fire of indignancy. “Are you _serious_?” Her mouth made a series of squeaks, unable to choose the first protest. “Do you know how many post-its are on your desk? Have you counted? I bought you a value pack and it was gone in a week.” 

“Were those the blue ones?” Poe asked eagerly. “I loved those. Nice and sticky. Could you—?”

“The answer is no,” she said, slightly hysterical. “No to new post-its. No to any and all requests.”

There was a quiet snort of amusement.

Rey whirled. Ben’s eyes immediately caught her own. She hated that it felt like a tangible thing, a thump of unexpected connection. “You know, I expect unprofessionalism from him,” she pointed to Poe, “but not from someone anal enough to demand a blood type from a low-budget porn studio.”

Poe cleared his throat. “ _Moderately_ budgeted, I think the argument could be made.” 

“Zero arguments will be heard at this time,” Rey managed to grit. She was still looking at Ben. “Do you know how many times someone has come on that chair?” 

Gaze still unbroken, he shook his head. No.

“A _lot_.” Alarms were blaring in her head. She was either burning bridges or building them and she didn’t know which. “Do you know why you couldn’t tell? Because I clean them. In the past week, I’ve talked a minotaur out of gouging his way to a bigger paycheck. I’ve sketched and custom-ordered three dildos because I can never not unlearn that some species prefer their dicks in interesting shapes. I’ve deloused a satyr. That, on top of my normal life, which…?” She made a gesture in the direction of Poe. “Did he tell you that this what I do in my spare time? That you are in no way fucking a professional?”

“Rey.” Poe’s voice was gentle. 

“Haven’t brushed up in a while, if I’m being honest. Been a little too busy trying to keep up in school. Or working one of my three _other_ jobs. None of which, come to think of it, cause me half as much stress as this one. Can’t say I’ve prepped for meetings half the night and shown up early only to be treated like my time isn’t precious.”

She didn’t know why she was still talking. Maybe because the person she was talking to hadn’t tried to stop her. He was only watching, hands open and relaxed on his lap. 

“Because it’s been made so obviously clear, you cannot be trusted not to waste more of my day. So here’s how the rest of the meeting is going to go.” She paused, waiting to hear a protest. The room stayed silent. “You will both wait here. I am leaving, I am finding a drink, and then I am sitting on the patio where I will not be judged for my choice of beverage. You can meet me there in ten minutes.” Then, to Ben, “Wear sunscreen.”

\--

According to every book she’d ever read, her heart was meant to be pounding. That’s what happened when the fiery heroine stood up to her boss and his minion, when she finally found the backbone to voice her frustration. Any minute now, Poe would come rushing up the steps, chastised and reformed, begging her to join him as his business partner. The vampire would play some role, too. Panting to make her a drink. Politely inquiring if she might enjoy one of those cute umbrellas, the kind served with fruit. 

Except her pulse remained steady. And if Poe were her boss, he was mostly her friend. An old friend. She hadn’t grown a backbone because she already had one; she’d groaned about that minotaur for a solid week until Poe took the whole crew out for dinner, his treat. She bitched to him about his organizational skills, the performers he hired, and anything else she saw fit on a near-daily basis and he thanked her for it. Subtlety was not his style. 

It was laughable to imagine anyone running up the stairs at all, seeing as how they were uneven. 

Poe might be apologetic, but he was impossible to reform. She’d bet anything he’d spent the last three minutes convincing his friend to finish the match. 

The last thing in the _world_ she wanted was to run a porn studio. 

And while she wouldn’t say no to a vampire cocktail, she certainly didn’t expect one. Not after that jibe about the sun. 

She cringed, reaching under the right cabinet for the rum. Vampires couldn’t die from sun exposure, but they certainly didn’t tan. It hurt their eyes more than anything else. Still, it was a bit rude to throw around bastardized myth as a weapon. Not as rude as calling him anal, perhaps, but still far from polite. 

If she were him, she’d have a hard time finding a reason to stay. There had to be more professional places to earn a paycheck. Early morning video games and sunlit meetings were hardly good omens. He’d be well within his rights to leave. 

Although, she thought as she poured, she’d seen more than dull reflection in his eyes. She’d been speaking, but she’d also been paying attention. He hadn’t been angry. Baffled, amused, and even intrigued—but not angry. Not even annoyed. 

She wondered what that meant. And then she used more rum.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is ridiculous.

Her weather app hadn’t lied: there were storm clouds in the distance. It would rain, but it was still a sunshine-filled morning and while Poe happily stretched on a lounger, Ben chose a seat under the umbrella’s shade. His sunglasses were the most opaquely dark things Rey had ever seen—an unanticipated flaw to her plan. Gauging his mood was much tougher than it had been in the basement.

He didn’t _seem_ overly irritated—at least no more so than she’d expect, given what she’d heard about his personality. His posture was a bit rigid, but perhaps he was trying to guess how many times someone had come on his chair. 

(The answer: also a lot.)

The beginning of the meeting proper was somewhat awkward. Rey could tell she’d rattled Poe more than she expected: he bypassed his usual jokes and launched directly into negotiations. 

Rey had minimal experience with contracts. She suspected other meetings in other offices were wildly different, but Poe structured theirs around a series of questions and the natural conversations that followed. He shared his general vision for the shoot, then asked for input. 

“I’m still thinking romantic,” he said, tapping his pencil’s eraser on a notepad. “Something organic. Passion, but no hard kinks.”

Since when was bloodplay not a hard kink? Rey wanted to mutter, but kept silent. It was all about perspective. There was probably nothing more vanilla for a vampire. 

Poe kept talking. “Of course that doesn’t mean I’m not open to a different vision. Anything you’d like to try, Rey?”

She wanted to hesitate, but now was not the time to be shy. She’d seen how easily shoots went awry when the actors weren’t on the same page. Someone’s pleasant dream was someone else’s nightmare.

She tried to sound confident. “I think you’re right. There’s enough hardcore to go around, and I’m not qualified or willing to do anything extreme. We should stick to basics. Light spanking, maybe. Edging.” Again, she cursed Ben’s sunglasses. He had a habit of not moving without reason; nothing she’d said had elicited so much as a twitch. “The biting should be the biggest draw.” 

“Do you deepthroat?”

Rey kept her face schooled professionally blank, though she was thrown. It was the first time Ben had asked her a direct question. “I…can?” 

His voice was unnervingly deep. “Is that a yes or a no?”

God. “Well, it—yes.” 

“Yes?”

“I’m…trying to think of a polite way to ask how big your dick is, and I’m struggling.” 

Without preamble, he told her. 

“Ah,” she said intelligently. 

When no further reaction was forthcoming, Poe tried to intervene. “Remember the guy from California? When we went ham with Dickens? You were the Strumpet of Christmas Past.” She had been the Strumpet of Christmas Present, actually, and she never wanted to see tinsel ever again. “You swallowed his cock like a champ.”

And her throat had felt raw for a week. Even if she over-estimated, Ben was slightly bigger. She hadn’t asked about girth. Decided she wouldn’t.

She still needed to give an answer. Not being able to see Ben’s eyes suddenly felt like a blessing. “I can try.” Outside of her control, her hands made a terrible gesture—something between _here is how I imagine holding your dick_ and _this is how I once milked a cow_. Truly appalling. 

“Not a big deal.” Bless Poe and his talent for diffusion. “We’ll see how things go. Any other questions, Ben?”

It took him longer to speak this time, but he did. “How do you feel about being held down?”

“I like it,” she said readily, relieved to answer something easy. “Very open.”

“Can I put my hand on your throat?”

“Like breathplay?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t want to control your air. It’s just part of my instinct. I can control it, if it bothers you, but it’s usually a good sign I’m getting ready to bite. Some people appreciate the warning and some don’t.” 

Mid-sentence, he’d moved his hand to the table. Rey was momentarily distracted by the size of his palm. It looked like it could span the width of her stomach. “Uh,” she forced herself to speak before she was ready. “It’s not—that’s fine. It’s fine,” she repeated. “A warning might be nice.” 

“I can tell you too,” he said slowly, “if that helps.” 

Rey hesitated. She’d never had sex with a vampire to know what she’d truly prefer. Part of her was interested in the tension of not knowing what to expect. It could be hot, guessing when he’d strike—analyzing the way his nips grew rougher, learning his tells. Fangs would be an obvious sign, but vampires with good control could detract and grow them at will. She could learn what cooled him off, what pushed him closer to a genuine reaction despite the cameras. That was her favorite part of porn: those moments when façade fell. 

But she was new at this. A warning would be wise. It didn’t mean the death of spontaneity. 

“Might be good to know,” she admitted. 

The conversation circled back to mood. They didn’t have the time or desire to spend hours on a background-building script, but it felt important to frame the scene as romantic. Ben suggested a reunion. 

“We're married. You’ve been gone on a trip or something.” Poe had fetched everyone a round of beer; Ben had unsuccessfully tried to hide a sneer at the brand, but was drinking it anyway. “We use a generic bedroom set, keep it messy. Take a picture of us for the nightstand. You come home and we celebrate. Wouldn’t be hard to ad-lib any dialogue we need.” 

Watching his mouth as he took another sip was allowed, Rey reasoned. If he were her faux-husband, she was his faux-wife. Any wife of Ben’s would be very interested in the way his lips fit against the bottle. Poe should pay her _more_ for this level of commitment. 

“I like it.” She deserved a round of applause; her voice was steady. “I feel like it needs another layer, though. Where’s the passion coming from?” 

“Easy. I’m hungry.”

She knew which hunger he meant. But, “Don’t you keep blood packs?”

His lip quirked. “Haven’t you heard that I’m picky? Someone even called me anal.” 

Poe didn’t look up from his phone, but he did snort. 

Rey flushed slightly. “I'm sorry for saying that. Still,” she said stubbornly. “Surely they sell something passable.”

“They do, but why would I settle for anything less than the real thing?” Somehow she knew—just _knew_ that he was staring at her neck. “A week without my fake wife and I’d almost be mad. Eager to drink.”

 _Do not shift in your chair._ “And to fuck, of course.”

He did not match the teasing lightness of her tone. He leaned forward, ever so slightly. “Of course.” 

She snatched up her drink. 

\--

After a short break, Poe guided them into the next phase: preliminary blocking of the scene. “Just an idea,” he kept repeating. “A general outline so my director doesn’t do something malicious to my person.” 

They didn’t return to the basement. It was all theoretical and frankly, rather standard. The selling point would be their performance.

Rey would come home to find her vampire husband waiting. Eager to see his wife, Ben would ask about her trip as she undressed. They’d kiss. Fall onto the bed. He’d eat her out, give her an orgasm, and ask if he could feed. She’d defer, teasing him until he snapped. 

They couldn’t quite nail down how the snapping would go. Spanking was still a possibility, but Ben predicted it would ruin the intensity. He’d rather use his strength in other ways: holding her down, fucking her on the desk and the bed and the floor, participating in his own denial by waiting until the last possible moment to bite. Rey’s idea—stopping him mid-drink—would be attempted, though Ben admitted he couldn’t anticipate the consequence. No matter what, he promised to leave her a bloody mess. 

Bonus footage for premium members would include the aftercare. Them in the bathroom—more lazy kissing and perhaps a blowjob in the shower, Ben wiping away the last of her blood. 

Poe wrote as they talked, content to let them take the lead. 

Reading his notes afterward was _bizarre_. Even though she saw her name, it was hard to make a connection between the words and their actual meaning. It was one thing to see Poe’s hastily written _Rey bite (neck and tbd…wrist? shoulder?) on bed ( ~~white~~ ivory sheets)_ and another to picture Ben’s fangs puncturing her skin. 

Picturing was high on her list of current priorities. She _excelled_ at picturing. Apparently, her specialty was extrapolating from an absolute minimum amount of information. 

Exhibit A: Ben’s fangs.  
Sub-exhibit A: How he used them. 

In comparison to Poe, he was downright miserly with his smiles. What little she could see of his teeth when he talked was unhelpful. Rey was forced to get creative: studying the width of his jaw, getting distracted by his cheekbones, and refocusing to estimate the softness of his lips. Her investigation concluded that he’d pierced through them more than once—there were twin scars, the pinkness broken by lighter indentations. By the size of them, his fangs must be fat, thick things. 

How his bite would _feel_ she did not know, but she had to suspect he used his whole body—pinning or squeezing or some other equally sexual verb with his hands as he fed. 

“What do you think?”

Rey turned to Poe. Ben had walked to the other side of the pool to take a phone call; she’d been trying to decide if his pacing could fairly be called prowling. It was engaging, necessary research requiring her full attention. “What do I think about what?” 

Poe nodded in Ben’s direction. “Happy you said yes?”

“Seems a little premature to ask, don’t you think?” 

“Oh, you have a feeling. You always do by now. You told me that centaur was trouble before he even opened his mouth.” 

“Poe, he was wearing a jumpsuit.”

“I was unaware your degree was in fashion.”

“A _prison_ jumpsuit. You give me too much credit. You’re just oblivious.”

Grinning, he threw his arms up in a backward, bending stretch. “Not oblivious enough to miss how much you’ve stared at his mouth.”

Humiliation stained her cheeks. She was moderately sure Ben hadn’t heard, but she still felt stiff with panic. “Jesus,” she hissed. “Want to say that a little louder for those of us without supernatural hearing?” 

“I’m going to point out something you already know, which is that if _I_ noticed, he definitely did.”

That was an unhelpfully fair point. Well and truly caught, she mumbled, “It was professional curiosity.”

“I said that I noticed, not that I blamed you.”

She swallowed the last of her beer, glaring.

“If it makes you feel any better, he spent an excessive amount of time staring at your neck.”

 _I knew it._ “You don’t know that.” 

“I do, actually. Every time you scratched that bug bite, he twitched. And quit pretending that you still have something left in that bottle.” He snatched it out of her hands, then started gathering the rest. “I’ve known Ben since we were kids. One of the many, many reasons I will not be present during filming. I already know too much about his dick. You think I can make this into the trash can?”

She’d forgotten all about that bite. Her fingers prodded it now, thoughtful. “Has he always been a vampire? And no, probably not.” 

Poe immediately threw the bottle. It landed firmly in the can, and he readied the next. “Yeah. Pretty old bloodline, actually. On his mother’s side. If I make this next one, will you help me with lunch?”

“You won’t make the next one, and you can call for Chinese yourself. How long has he been in porn?” 

The new bottle clanged against the old, safely caught. “Not long but long enough. And that’s your second Ben-centric question. Can I assume that’s because you’re looking forward to the main event?”

Poe knew her well enough to sniff out obvious lies. “Possibly,” she hedged. 

“Excellent.” The last bottle joined the rest. Rey noticed that the ring of sweat around Poe’s collar had dried; it was getting cooler. “I know both of you are good enough to work with someone you hate, but this makes it easier. And it’ll translate well on film.”

She made a noncommittal noise. How long was this phone call?

“—nervous before, but now that I see you’re getting along, I feel much less guilty.”

Her head snapped to Poe’s like a predator. “Why?”

“Because now my new favor is hardly a favor at all. It’s more like a boon.”

“You’re not serious.” She stared at him. “You _are_ serious.”

“I realized I fucked up this morning. I’m sorry.” He brought a hand to his heart and tried to bow. “Consider this my way of beginning to atone.”

“What,” she growled, “did you do?”

“I booked an orgy.”

Something still didn’t smell right. “And?”

“And I thought you might appreciate that I saved you the trouble. You’re a wizard with scheduling, but I know you’d rather do anything else.”

From across the pool, it sounded like Ben was finally wrapping up his call. Something told Rey she wanted Poe to finish his speech before they were no longer alone. “Boons. Favors. Orgies,” she said quickly. “I’m hearing a lot of words, Poe, and not a lot of answers.” 

“It’s going to be epic.” He swept his arm in a theatrical arc, a man with a brush and a canvas. “Not one, but _two_ succubae. A whole host of pixies. I’ve got every extra room booked with normies, all of them ready for the shoot of a lifetime. It’s happening tonight. Well,” he paused mid-gesture, “they’re arriving tonight. Filming begins tomorrow. Rose needed the day off.”

That was one hundred percent a ‘goodbye’ echoing across the water. “ _Poe_.”

“I had a back-up plan in case things didn’t go as predicted, but based on your burgeoning interest, I think you’ll be happy to know the vampire needs a place to stay.”

There was a roaring in her ears. “So you were a thoughtful producer and called a hotel.” 

“I did not.” 

“So you told him this in advance and _he_ called a hotel.”

Poe had the gall to look pleased when he shook his head. “Hotels aren’t cheap, and I promised him free lodging. He lives in-state but out of town and didn’t feel like driving back just to turn back around. I don’t blame him. He has enough business nearby to keep him occupied until the shoot. Your place made the most sense.”

“Why?” she almost wailed. 

“You have an extra room and you’re hardly home anyway. He doesn’t need a babysitter. Just a bed. And I thought you might appreciate the chance to get to know him. Take some of the fear out of Friday. He’s just a person.”

Rey opened her mouth.

The vampire. In her apartment. Walking around her apartment. Sitting on her chairs and flipping through Netflix. The idea was almost absurd. 

She could not _believe_ Poe. She had had reservations about fucking a vampire, sure, but she wasn’t afraid. She did not require exposure therapy. This wasn’t how things were done. You showed up on set, you shook someone’s hand, and then you sat on their dick. Vampire dick, werewolf dick, human dick—it didn’t matter. You moaned when you were supposed to moan and you collected your paycheck. 

Inviting him into her house was only asking for trouble. He didn’t seem like the asshole Finn promised, but she also didn’t know him. What if he royally pissed her off? She could fuck a stranger; despite Poe’s confidence, she wasn’t sure she could fuck an enemy.

“Rey?”

She looked up when Poe spoke but saw Ben instead. Finally finished, he was making his way around the pool’s perimeter. She watched. 

Prowling. Definitely.

“I want a raise,” she muttered, and it wasn’t the word _no_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short chapter, but I wanted to post something for Christmas. :D I'll try to make the next one longer, but it won't be up as quickly as the first three. Friday, perhaps. Or Saturday. 
> 
> I promise Ben will have more than eight things to say in the next chapter. He's been very stingy so far, eh?
> 
> Happy Holidays, if you're celebrating. Happy Wednesday, if you don't. <3


	4. Chapter 4

“Bird. Sign post. Jelly doughnuts.”

“What are you doing?”

“Those spinning silver bits on hub caps. Cigarette butts.”

“Are you broken?”

One last effort: “Pot holes?” 

He blinked at her. 

“You’re hopeless,” she moaned, despairing. “My hope hath officially fled.” 

“I…don’t understand.” 

“I just wanted _one_ opinion. ‘I hate birds, Rey’ or ‘I once tried a doughnut full of jellied AB+ and it was trash, Rey.’ I can already guess that you don’t approve of anything that spins, but that’s not the point.” She puffed a sharp breath upwards to free a lock of hair from her cheek; the roads were too treacherously slick to take her hands from the wheel. “We’ve been in this car for twenty minutes and I know you no better than I did before.”

She’d tried more than just blunt observations. The radio came first. She’d hit every station with the hope that he might beg her to change one and not another. But he sat just as silently stoic through bluegrass as he did sports commentary as he did gospel. 

Frustrated, she turned the whole thing off altogether. 

She’d hummed TV theme songs. Tried tapping Morse code on the steering wheel ( _k-a-l-e i-s a-n e-v-i-l g-r-e-e-n_ ). Sharing truths like “I once took a course in meteorology” and “I once knitted a whole scarf with my eyes closed just to see if I could” elicited grunts of acknowledgment, but nothing more. 

Rey knew he could talk. He’d had no problem yelling at Poe’s ineptitude in the basement or making it very clear that he wouldn’t fuck on scratchy sheets. They’d brainstormed without a problem. According to Poe, he’d liked her neck. 

Only she still didn’t know him. There had been glimmers of preference—wisps of opinions that with time she might mold into the bones of a personality—but he was firmly a stranger.

A stranger in her car. Her very small, very compact car with its closed windows and doors and no easy escape. Its size only served to highlight _his_ size. Every time she checked, his seat seemed to shrink, the bulk of his shoulders expanding out until she was convinced they’d soon touch her own. His seatbelt looked ready to beg for a merciful death. 

Part of her living came from driving strangers. She never insisted single passengers sit in the back, even though most of them did. But of the ones who _didn’t_ , not a single soul had made her feel so frazzled. 

Maybe it had something to do with the lighting. The greyness of the sky only exacerbated his natural broodiness and she was _weak_ for it. No one should be allowed such soulful eyes. It was infuriating. 

“You were saying random words in order to get my opinion?” 

“Yes,” she said glumly. 

“All this time, with the—” he tapped out a random rhythm on his leg, “and the weather class and the awful music? That was you trying to start a conversation?”

She made a face at the road that said _Obviously_.

“Huh,” he said thoughtfully, then wriggled a little, trying to find space that didn’t exist. It reminded Rey of the dogs she walked; they did the same thing in her backseat with their blankets. “Did you try asking a question?” 

Of course she…hadn’t. “No,” she sighed tiredly. Then muttered, “Why would I try something as sensibly straight-forward as a question.” 

His lip gave the smallest of twitches. She chose to believe he was suppressing a smile, not hunger. “I can answer questions, if you like,” he said, though not immediately. “Or I can ask questions of my own. I have a few. Such as: why are you so nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.” 

Raising an eyebrow, he pointed to her death-grip on the steering wheel. It squeaked in protest. 

“I’ve never liked driving in the rain,” she said quickly. “All that black ice.”

“It’s 60 degrees out.”

“It’s slippery.” And before he had time to argue: “You really didn’t recognize a single theme song?”

“No. Did I say something to make you nervous?”

Relentless. There was no use for it, then. “You can’t tell me this isn’t strange.” He started to frown, so she made a quick gesture between the two of them. “Us. Driving back to my apartment, eventually discussing dinner plans. You, wondering if I have any blood in my freezer. Me, wondering if I need to buy blood for my freezer. Three nights and two days of knowing why you’re there in the first place.” 

A long time. She’d almost balked when she realized, but Poe hadn’t lied: she was rarely home. Ben’s car was out of commission for reasons she did not know (thus their shared ride), but he had shit to do. He wouldn’t be in her hair. 

“It’s a little unconventional,” he allowed. “But I didn’t expect anything less with Poe involved.” He slipped his sunglasses off of his collar and inspected the lenses, dragging up the edge of his shirt to clean them. “They’re just myths, by the way. If you’re worried about inviting me into your home. I can’t barge in whenever I want just because you invite me in once.” The glass whined as he rubbed it. _Be gentle_ , she wanted to say. “And if you don’t want to fuck me, it’s not too late to back out. You know Poe doesn’t give two shits about broken contracts.”

It was almost too much information to process. She could reassure him that she wasn’t ignorant enough to believe old wives tales, but she was far too struck by his offer. How he desperately tried to sound uncaring. How he continued to punish his glasses. 

Oh. 

The tension in her shoulders lessened. “No, it’s—” She decided to be careful; male pride was a delicate thing. “I _don’t_ know why I’m nervous, if I’m being honest. I think that’s what’s making me nervous.” 

He didn’t say anything, but released his shirt. Listening. 

She focused on the swoosh of the rain under the tires. “As strange as this day has been, it’s not an abnormal strange. If that makes sense. I didn’t drive to Poe’s expecting to take you home—” Ben’s head jerked, hearing that, “but I’m also not surprised that you’re here. He asks me to do crazy shit all the time because he knows he can trust me to tell him the truth. And he _keeps_ asking because the odds are I’ll say yes.” She had the track record to prove it. Poe was nothing if not consistently chaotic. “This _is_ a first, though. I’ve filmed before, but not a lot, and never with a vampire. Having you around reminds me of that, which…makes me nervous. Even though it shouldn’t. Everyone has a first time.”

“So,” he started, and Rey was reminded of Analytical Geometry. The way the whole class breathed as one confused organism when the professor stopped to review. Ben was the poor soul called on to explain conditional convergence. “This is a strange day, but not such a strange day.”

He stopped, and Rey realized he was waiting for her approval. She nodded. “Yeah.”

“And you’re nervous about me being in your apartment but also not nervous.” 

Another nod. “Exactly.”

He nodded back, but slower. Like he’d almost solved a puzzle but the final piece was hidden in a lightless room. “And you’ve never slept with a vampire?” 

She so badly wanted to lie. Once he knew, he _knew_. It made her feel oddly vulnerable. Would he throw it in her face? Wait until she left the room so he could call Poe, indignantly furious, demanding someone else and damn the blood type? 

Or would being honest do what it’d done so far, and ease the shiver in her skin? 

She gently bit her own tongue. She felt like she was standing at the edge of a chasm with slippery feet. “Never.”

The road was dangerous—the horizon ahead was now almost a sea of red lights, one lane already closed from an accident. She couldn’t take her eye off it for long. 

But she stole a glance anyway, too hungry for clues. He’d heard her—she knew that much. His body had shifted slightly in her direction; his hands, finally freed from glasses or shirt, were curled not loosely on his knees. When a minivan honked and Rey’s attention snapped back to the road, she could feel the weight of his eyes on her face. Her pulse jumped. 

Fresh rain attacked the roof. He mumbled something, and she strained to hear. “What?” 

“I said I don’t mind.” If he was quiet before, he overcompensated now. Every syllable was clear. “I said you shouldn’t worry.”

It was a fine answer. A calming one. She let herself be soothed by it before growling and flipping off a merging Tesla. Her sudden fierceness delighted him: she saw the flash of a smile, his eyetooth visibly crooked and sharp. 

Knowing he liked it only made her do it more. She soon pounced on any reason to curse, almost gleeful when an opportunity arose because it meant he might do it again and she _liked_ it, that glimpse of his teeth. Of his smile. 

The rest of the ride was no longer something that loomed. Freed of the worst traffic, she finally asked questions and he finally gave answers—halting ones, but answers all the same. The silences in between no longer felt like a slow, unending smothering. 

She learned his favorite bird: the motmot.

He learned her favorite doughnut: cinnamon twist.

It was odd, this new feeling of lightness. Having admitted the truth, she felt silly for hiding it in the first place. She’d never fucked a vampire. Never been bitten. He’d heard her admit it, and he said what he said. 

He didn’t mind; she shouldn’t worry.

Only she could have sworn he’d muttered something else. Something first, like:

_“Good.”_

\--

“One more time.” 

“Okay, so say it’s going to rain. There’s your state on the screen and part of it’s blue, right? That’s called the forecast area.”

“No, I get that.”

“Well, the question is: if they say there’s a sixty percent chance of rain, do they mean that rain will fall on sixty percent of the forecast area? Or a sixty percent chance that rain will fall at all?”

She’d given him enough clues. He tongued the side of his cheek as he pieced them together. “Neither?”

“Neither!” she said, far more pleased than the situation warranted. “It means there’s a sixty percent chance that rain will fall _somewhere_ in the forecast area.”

He seemed to mull it over. “That feels like cheating.”

“Doesn’t it? Fascinating, though. I signed up for the wrong class but ended up taking it, anyway.” A financially stupid, sentimental choice that she couldn’t bring herself to regret. “Our professor was half-chimera. She had two noses, both of them attuned to weather. Never met a raincloud she couldn’t predict.”

“Wonder what she’d say about this.” Ben pointed at the sky. 

Rey leaned forward, hugging the wheel. Rain continued to smack the windshield, a constant drumming that had quieted since she’d left the highway. They were almost home and she was glad of it: the wind was starting to rattle her side-mirror, and the horizon looked menacingly dark. If they were lucky, they’d make it to her door before the the storm truly began. 

“Nothing good.” She waited her turn at a stop sign, the car inching forward. “Did you take any interesting classes in college? Poe mentioned Northwestern. Very fancy.”

A small snort. “Did he mention that I dropped out?”

“No,” she said. _Thanks, Poe._ “I get it, though. It’s not for everyone.” 

He made a noise of bitter agreement. “Not for who I was, definitely. I’m not sure how much Poe told you, but I was kind of a shit.” 

Cautiously, she admitted, “The word ‘asshole’ was thrown around once or twice.” 

“Yeah.” Rey heard more than the word when he said it; there was regret, thankfully, but also a bit of embarrassment. An undercurrent of old anger. “It’s taken me a long fucking time to understand my choices, and I’m the one who made them.” Lower pitched, perhaps a bit self-consciously: “Therapy’s helped.”

She almost pinched herself. _This_ was the guy who asked if she deepthroated with a straight face? Who made promises about bloody sheets? 

She wanted to ask more—about his choices, about Finn, about the road that led him to porn—but they’d arrived at the crumbling eyesore of her complex’s garage. When she flipped the visor down, her pass card happily flew into the abyss between her seat and the door, which meant hunting and vile cursing and eventually, honking from whoever was impatiently waiting their turn. 

Finally parked, she should have felt triumphant. The storm had yet to unleash its fury; they’d beaten it home. Ben’s presence was now far less strange. As far as she was aware, no one had texted with a new crisis. 

But something familiar was scratching at her brain. 

She tried to place it, and decided it was the same feeling she tended to get when Poe announced he’d finished payroll. 

“I’m worrying,” she said out loud. Without the drumming of the rain, her voice almost echoed in the car. She twisted to Ben. “Why am I worrying?”

Halfway through unbuckling, he froze and made an immediate scan of the surroundings. When no marauders came screaming through the concrete, he turned back, his face a mix of confusion and concern. “Is this like a game show? Am I supposed to guess?” 

She flopped back into her seat and stared at her lap. Thinking.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She hadn’t lost her car keys or her phone. Her wallet was in sight.

“You double booked on Friday with a lamassu and only just remembered.”

Maybe it was about her apartment. Ben would high-key hate her decorating. No doubt it would prove challenging to effectively brood amongst so much color. Her patchwork blankets and pillows would likely offend his very soul. Alas, such was the price for free lodging. He’d survive.

“Except you _can’t_ remember if they have human-sized dicks.”

She was on to something, though. It had to do with Ben.

“Pro-tip: they don’t.”

She didn’t have fresh garlic. No errant pieces of spiky wood ripe for impalement. 

“One of the many reasons I recommend an ironclad contract.”

“Oh my _god_.” Her palms flew to her temples, pressing in. Trying to contain her stupidity. “I even _talked_ about it. Your food!”

He’d clammed up as soon as she’d spoken. Now his brow furrowed. “My food?” 

“Fuck.” Even with the protection of the garage, wind gently rocked her car. A small flood had already started to creep across the concrete. The closest blood-stocked store was at least half a mile down the road. She was loath to take the car out again; her wheels were bald as shit and she’d already hydroplaned twice. There was no need to tempt fate—not with her car and not with Ben. 

Not that he couldn’t find his own blood. It was more about being a good host than anything else. Minorly, it was about protecting her self-interest. Vampires could go days without feeding, but it wasn’t preferred. Thirst did all kinds of unpleasant things. 

She’d just…sprint. The booming thunder might be the motivator she needed to break her PR. 

She frowned, then snatched up her phone. 

Ben looked lost. “What are you doing?”

“Googling the odds of being struck by lightning.”

His head swiveled slowly toward the garage entrance. In a fit of optimism, someone had planted a sad cluster of daises. They’d given up trying to stay vertical; each new gust bent the stems until they kissed the earth. 

He turned back to Rey. “I’m going to have to insist that you make a less irresponsible decision.” 

She drew up her foot into her lap, checking the soles. How much rubber did one need in order to avoid electrocution? “You have to eat.” 

“I don’t understand. Are you planning on serving me raw liver?”

“I don’t hate you, so no.”

When she moved to open her door, he lunged across the center console and trapped her hand against the handle. 

Her brain record-scratched. He smelled like cedarwood. “Uh,” she said, because that was the sound one made when ‘his arms cannot be as muscular as they look’ became ‘his arms are _definitely_ as muscular as they look.’ In the small space, his left side flexed against her chest. 

But only for a moment. Once he’d rendered her frozen, Ben pulled back. “You are _not_ ,” he said flatly, “running to the store in a fucking thunderstorm to buy me blood. I don’t need it.”

Cedarwood, and maybe cardamom. “You don’t?” 

“I never eat the week of a shoot.”

She thought back to her research. “But doesn’t that…” 

“Make me thirsty?” 

She nodded slowly, confused. 

His eyes dropped to her neck. She watched him look, noted the quirk of his lips when her pulse thumped wildly. “Yeah.” His voice was as deep as the thunder. “That’s kind of the point.”

\--

When would the future finally arrive? Rey felt woefully old-fashioned as she struggled with her keys. On any given day, they either jammed or refused to fit at all. Today they felt like jamming. 

“Surely,” she panted, wriggling her key hard enough to rattle the door, “the technology exists. I don’t ask for much. Just a nice, highly unethical and hackable camera that scans my eyeballs and opens the door to my home. Maybe a speaker, too. A programmed voice that said encouraging things as I left.”

Ben waited patiently. With his bag, he almost blocked the entire hallway. He seemed torn between helping and enjoying the show. “Such as?” 

“’You’re doing such a good job, Rey. The best I’ve ever seen.’ That’d be a nice start.”

“A good job of what?”

She growled, slapping her hand against the cheap composite. She eyed the frame like an enemy. “Anything. It wouldn’t matter. Universally applicable. Baking, picking out the right scarf, not killing my boss. Take your pick. I’m going to _murder_ this fucking thing.”

He ignored the new round of rattling. “Interesting. I don’t remember you mentioning your praise kink earlier.” 

The Rey who’d gotten mildly flustered in the car might have faltered, hearing that. Now she was too aggravated to care. “Must have slipped my mind,” she said, bending down to inspect the keyhole. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pair of pliers?” 

“No.” He leaned against the wall next to her, watching. “It’s not too late, by the way. I’ll keep it in mind for the shoot.” 

“Knock yourself out.” She squinted at the lock. Was that rust, or just flecked paint? 

“I can only assume,” he continued lightly, “that you didn’t mention it before out of misplaced shame. But if it’s what you want, we can make it happen.”

She ran a finger against the metal, inspecting. “Cool.” 

“Could practice, since we have the time. I’m open to feedback.” 

“Sure.” Rust. Definitely. 

“You’re doing a good job with the door. I’ve never seen such persistent aggressiveness.” 

Maybe her neighbor had a hammer. “Thanks.”

“Probably one of the reasons you can work for Poe. Congratulations, by the way. Many people have tried and failed in the past.” 

“Uh-huh.”

“I liked watching you drive. You know what you’re doing.”

She flicked the key—lightly, this time. It felt loose. “Mm.” 

“Competence is attractive.” 

“Yeah.”

“And maybe you lack experience, but you negotiated well. Made your needs known. Didn’t let Poe pigeonhole you into a scene you didn’t want to shoot.”

“I love him,” she said distractedly, “but Poe is an idiot.” 

“He’d be an idiot to lose you. I don’t know how much he’s paying you, but it’s not enough.”

It was possible she’d been going about this all wrong. Very gently, she adjusted the key. Something clicked, but she refused to get excited. Excitement preceded success—something her door avoided at all cost. Better to pretend she didn’t care. 

She stood up, shaking out the tension in her fingers. 

“It was hot, by the way. When you yelled at us in the basement. I almost wanted to ask you to do it again.” 

Her hand was halfway to the doorknob. Then she frowned. “What did you say?”

Taking a step forward, he didn’t break eye contact. He reached for the knob and gave it a twist. It popped open. Dim light escaped her apartment; the flashes of lightning were bright enough to reach the hall. 

“I said,” he paused to adjust his bag, “that I think Friday’s going to work out just fine.” And then he slipped past, leaving her blinking in the near-dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that there will eventually be porn in my porn AU. <3
> 
> Also, I don't know how long this is going to be; that chapter count is a guesstimate that may or may not change. I'm flying by the seat of my pants. Which...I think is obvious. XD Thank you for cheering me on.


	5. Chapter 5

Ben hated her décor as much as she’d suspected. She knew because she paid attention: there was a hesitancy in his step before they entered each room, a drawn and held breath like he needed to mentally prepare for the visual bombardment. To his credit, he was polite enough not to openly criticize. 

It was a fun, cruel game to test his limits. 

“This is the bathroom,” she said, two hands on the door. She gave it a shove. It moved roughly half an inch. “Sometimes the towels like to fall off the rack. They create this little mountain behind the door and it makes it—hard—to— _got it._ ” 

A different person might have hesitated to so eagerly show off a cluttered vanity, but Rey was practical. Real people lived lives that didn’t always leave time for organization. There was no dirt; there was no mold; she knew the toenail clippers were underneath the receipt for her vitamins. That’s what mattered. 

Something about Ben’s face told her he disagreed. She could tell he was desperately trying to determine the color of her floor. Granted, the layer of clothes made it difficult. 

“What do you think?” she pressed, and it was strangely delightful to see him squirm. 

“You have very nice…grout.” 

Entertained beyond belief, she added that to her collection. It joined such classic hits as: _“That is a square window”_ (her guest room), _“Your refrigerator is in an optimal location_ (her kitchen), and _“An inventive use of lampshades”_ (her bedroom). 

If he wanted the torture to end, he needed to be less entertaining. 

She toed a pair of jeans that she had every intention of picking up. At a later time. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked innocently. Accidentally but not accidentally, she stepped on an empty box of tampons. Ben grimaced. “It’s a touch disordered, but—”

“A _touch_?” he choked. 

“—being my guest, you’re welcome to anything you find.”

“I…” he trailed off with an unhappy sound, and Rey wondered if she’d broken him. But he seemed to rally. With his eyes closed, he held up a Ziploc bag with a toothbrush and asked, “Where should I put this?”

Rey pretended to consider, then stretched out an arm, poised to sweep half a counter’s worth of free samples to the floor. “This will work,” she said, and that’s when he must have opened his eyes because he immediately tripped over a towel. 

“For fuck’s sake, _don’t_.” 

She tried to sound confused. “Don’t make room for your bag?”

“Not like—” He mimicked the same sweeping motion with his arm. When she didn’t respond, he straightened to his full height. Like he was prepared to wrangle the whole conversation into submission with his bare hands. “You’re joking, right? That’s what’s happening?”

“There’s plenty of room,” she insisted. 

He stared. 

“You seem perturbed.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it.

“If you have some sort of objection to the bathroom you’re using free of charge, I’d love to hear it.”

Wordlessly, face like a storm cloud, he handed her his bag and left the room. 

He didn’t go far. She could hear the weight of his footsteps retreat back to her living room, then the squeak of her biggest chair by the window. _I like being up high_ , he’d confessed earlier. _Reminds me of flying._

Rey smiled a quick smile at the memory. And then she began to make amends. 

She started with the clothes. It _was_ a little embarrassing how quickly she filled up her hamper, but she lived alone and what was the point of re-dressing after a shower? Laundry was a hassle. Plus, she’d never gotten around to buying a rug. She’d rather step on her Walmart leggings than a freezing tile floor. 

Towels hung and clothes picked up, she attacked the vanity. Keeping samples was a habit she’d only recently begun to break. Part of her—the part of her that remembered truck stop showers and precious, pale slivers of soap hoarded like gold—trembled to see them in the trash, but she did it anyway, pushing back instinct. 

Her Q-tips were corralled and stacked, her nail polish flung in its bin under her sink. Expiration dates were checked; receipts were tossed, rescued, and tossed again. Ben’s toothbrush (an unimpressively normal thing that gave no indication its owner had fangs) was given a place of honor next to her own. The shower was already clean. 

It didn’t take long: in less than ten minutes she was wandering into the living room. 

Ben had indeed claimed her chair. He looked predictably huge—Rey was reminded of a plant overgrown and sprawling, leaves hungry for the pleasure of the sun. 

“Still shitty out?” she asked, even though she could see for herself that it was. The rain had turned torrential; the world was grayish and blurred. 

He grunted affirmation and went back to scrolling on his phone. 

Ah. More put-out than she’d anticipated. She wondered if he’d texted Poe: _I take it all back—no blood is worth this assault on my senses or honor. I don’t care that she’s fantastic at scolding._

Which was a thing, apparently. His thing. She hadn’t been paying close attention, but that was the flavor his words had left in the air. For the sake of surviving the afternoon, she chose not to examine it. 

“I put a set of clean towels on your bed,” she tried again. 

Another grunt. 

He was too much. “Are you pouting because I made you stand in my bathroom?”

“Yes.” 

“Well, it’s tidy now.”

He raised one disbelieving eyebrow. 

“I’m serious.” When his expression didn’t change, she snatched a pillow from the couch and threw it at his face. He caught it with a single hand, scowling. It was hard not to grin, but she tried. “It’s not like I had warning, you know. I’d planned on coming home, finding my fuzzy socks, and researching vampire porn in peace. Now I have to be sneaky.” 

Her plan worked. Indignation was rapidly replaced with mild shock. He tried to hide it, though, keeping his voice neutral with a very eloquent, “Oh.”

As he processed, she looked around the room. Tried to assess it with an objective eye. 

Years and years of living like a nomad meant she didn’t have much when she signed her first lease. There had been months where the only furniture she owned was a set of cracked milkcrates and a card table she’d jacked from a dumpster. 

Paychecks, meager as they were, made all the difference. Soon she had a couch. Then a table. Then chairs and the cushions to top them. She quit stealing sugar packets from Starbucks and stopped reusing the same spoon. She built shelves and she filled them: pictures of friends, worthless knickknacks that caught her attention, bits of yarn that one day might make a good scarf. 

She liked things that looked alive. Plants, but also color. Her living room was her tribute to the ocean: swirling shades of green and blue, cozy with an absurd amount of quilts, pillows, and afghans—all of them soft from use. 

It had taken years, but she learned what she liked. Rey absolutely _could_ sleep (and had) on something as insignificant as a towel, but now she was greedy for comfort. 

Toeing off her shoes, she flopped onto the couch, dragging a blanket over her shoulders. 

She wasn’t sure what to make for dinner. As long as vampires had a steady supply of blood, they ate like anyone else. Only she wasn’t sure what Sir Fussiness wanted. 

Glory be to Pinterest. She patted her blanket nest until she found the sharp edges of her laptop.

The faint clicks from his phone stopped abruptly. “Has the research portion of the evening officially commenced?” 

She typed in her password. “Try not to sound so scandalized.” 

“Not scandalized. Just curious about search terms.” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She clicked on a picture of a fanged chef holding a plate of…? She squinted, pulling the laptop closer to her face. 

“I only ask because I have a vested interest in your knowledge base.” 

Blood oranges. How original. Scoffing, she clicked a new link. “Are you sure you’re not just nosy?” 

He made a thoughtful noise. “Is it nosiness if you already told me what you’re doing?”

“Absolutely. You’re snooping for details.” More clicking. Enchiladas? Cemita poblana? Something with salsa sounded good, but, “Can we roleplay super quick?”

Something clattered against the floor. His phone, she guessed. “What?”

“Nothing too involved,” she promised, and part of her brain registered that he hadn’t immediately said _no_. “Just imagine that you’re in a restaurant. I’m your waitress. With me so far?”

Warily, he said, “Yeah?”

“You’ve been looking forward to this meal all day. Your vampiric goings-on have left you famished.”

A pause. “Should I ask what we’re wearing?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “It’s irrelevant. Tuxedos. Parkas. Your choice.” It was strange, but she could tell that he actually picked one. For the briefest moment, his eyes went unfocused. “So I’m at your table, and I say, ‘Hello, my name is Kira and I will be your server. Have you had a chance to look over the menu?’ and you say yes, of course you have, and I say, ‘What can I get you?’ and you say…?” She trailed off expectantly. 

He looked like a man who’d studied for a driving test only to be handed the keys to a spaceship. Admirably, it didn’t stop him from trying. “I ask for the special.”

She was afraid of that. “Okay. So I lean forward and I ask, ‘Which one?’” 

“The…” He faltered, searching her face for clues. “Where are we?” 

“Does it matter?”

“Well,” he said slowly, clearly suspicious, “at this point in the script, the writers usually throw in a pun. If I don’t know where I am, I don’t know whether to ask for the tossed salad or leeringly point to the ice cream machine.”

She was momentarily thrown. “The ice cream machine?”

“Dripping white cream, licking cones, endless promises about screaming.” He rattled them off like a tedious grocery list. “It’s very common.” 

Huh. “I trust you. But just…let’s go back. You’re sitting. I’m asking. What do you order?”

“I just told you. It depends on where we are.” 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But it does.”

“Are you going to be this difficult on set?”

“Are _you_?”

She rubbed her tongue against the back of her teeth. Fine. He was more stubborn than she’d anticipated, but she could still achieve her goal. She worked with stubborn people all the time. The best trick, she’d found, was information overload—saying more than necessary as quickly as possible with as much authority as possible. Neutralize their ability to think. She didn’t need a meta-analysis of food innuendos; she wanted to know what to cook for dinner.

One more time.

The lid of her laptop clicked shut. She kept the blanket around her shoulders like a cape as she walked the short distance to his chair. Proximity was another useful tool.

His gaze dipped to her hands. Wary, like he couldn’t decide if she held a knife or a gift. 

“Let’s start over,” she said, and had his eyes always been that dark? Arrestingly dark. They caught on her face and stayed there—a warm, unexpected weight. “It’s possible my build-up lacked the necessary details. So get out of the restaurant. Back up. You’re in your car, and you’re hungry. You haven’t eaten all day. How do you feel?”

He didn’t immediately answer. When he did, it was like he had to drag the words up from the bottom of the sea. “It’s like a…hollowness.”

“Okay, and it’s distracting, right? All you can think about. You just want to make it go away.” 

He agreed, nodding so slowly Rey would have guessed he was drunk. 

She took one step closer. Her blanket brushed the edges of his leg. “This restaurant is your salvation. You’ve been there before. As you walk through the doors, as you’re led to your table, you know you’re about to get exactly what you need.” She would have felt stupider saying it, but Ben didn’t seem to mind: he was listening intently. Unmoving. “You’re handed a menu. You toss it aside because you already know what you want. You can smell it. Almost taste it.”

The roll of his tongue was audibly slick. 

Perfect. 

“And that’s my cue, of course. I check in with another table. I very impressively pour water into glasses and I laugh at their terrible joke because I want a tip.” She grinned; Ben didn’t. “By the time I get to you, I can tell you’re desperate. Grinding your teeth. Shredding a napkin. I politely smile, but don’t bother saying hello. I lean across the table, I grab the menu, and I say, ‘What would you like?’ and you say—”

“You.” 

Rey blinked. 

Rain ceaselessly pummeled the window. 

It hadn’t been a joke; he wasn’t smiling. She could see no obvious regret. _If I asked him to say that again,_ she thought wildly, _he would_. 

“We’re having tacos,” she announced, and fled to the kitchen. 

\--

Thanks to the most efficient and clever compartmentalizing she’d ever achieved, Rey managed not to evaporate when Ben started making guacamole. 

It was fine. Everything was fine. Ben would order her off a menu, but it was fine. 

Part of her wanted to rewind the entire exchange—analyze Ben’s reactions and answers in a different light. Roleplaying in order to suss out a dinner menu was never _not_ a terrible idea, but it hadn’t truly gone awry until the end. Something had changed.

Not that it mattered. He’d misunderstood the goal from the start. Probably thought it was just her strange, unprofessional way of prepping for the shoot. Which was why he’d said what he’d said. What other answer was a hungry porn star supposed to give his porn star waitress? Bluefin tuna with a side of cilantro relish? Chicken nuggets? No—there was only one correct response and he’d given it. 

So instead of evaporating, Rey handed him a knife. 

After that, chatting was easy. She seasoned the steak, and they talked about typhoons. She seared the steak, and they talked about golf carts. Instead of asking what her feelings on universal healthcare had to do with Rose’s cinematography, he brought up the time he’d gone kayaking in Iceland. He didn’t seem to mind her scattered thoughts; he celebrated them. 

Faster than she would have expected, Rey felt relaxed. Balanced and back to a place she felt comfortable. 

For his part, Ben had better adapted to his new surroundings. He no longer looked so tortured. She detected not the smallest twitch when he spotted her tie-dye placemats. 

Sitting at her table, he almost radiated contentment. Which made it easier for her to look over her shoulder and ask, “Do you recall my evening plans?”

He held two onions, one in either hand, and was clearly trying to decide which to chop. “Fuzzy socks,” he said absently. “Research of an explicit nature.” 

“Right. Well, it’s just that I hate feeling uninformed.”

He set an onion down only to immediately swap it with the other. “One of my first shoots was with a mermaid. Waited for the on-set shower to shave my balls, then realized we’d be fucking in a saltwater tank. They ended up splicing my scream with the cumshot.” He looked up, his eyes grave. “I recommend being informed.” 

She turned back to the counter so she could hide her smile. “I’m sure the video was a success.”

“Hardly. Have you ever fucked someone with scales?”

“Yes, and I’d almost forgotten.” 

“I hear some people pay for that level of exfoliation.”

“Some people are idiots.” She frowned, freshly traumatized at the memory of red skin and lotion, so much lotion. “In the interest of not joining their ranks, would you mind if I asked you some questions?” 

“About porn?”

She nodded, although she wasn’t sure if he was paying attention. “Yeah, but mostly about being a vampire. I’m fucking one on Friday.”

“Far be it from me to stand between someone and their education. Do you have a different knife? This one is—”

She reached into an open drawer and plucked out her favorite. “Okay, so first question. I cut myself on one of these—” she held out the knife by its blade, let it bounce once in the air before he grabbed it. “What do you do?”

“Ask you where you keep your band-aids.”

“Really?”

“You sound disappointed.” 

She closed the open drawer with her hip, considering. “I guess I always just pictured more fanfare.”

“Like murder?” he asked dryly. 

“No, like—I don’t know. Gnashing of newly fanged teeth. Involuntary bloodlust.” She transferred the sliced steak onto a platter, then wandered to her fridge, hunting for limes. “So seeing and smelling blood is a non-issue?”

She could hear the scrape of her knife on the cutting board. “I didn’t say I couldn’t smell it. From the look of your freezer, you like vodka. We drove past a liquor store. You didn’t raze it to the ground for some Belvedere.” 

“I _knew_ you’d snooped in there. But fair.” Prize acquired, she finished moving the rest of the dishes to the table. “What do you smell? Is it like a flavor—chocolate, something bitter or sweet? Something with notes?” The overhead light had always annoyed her; now that they were ready to eat, she flicked it off. “Or is it like the werewolves, more emotional?”

A raised eyebrow. “You know a lot about werewolves?”

“A fair amount. I dated one, once. His nose was a constant source of crisis. I had to shower twice a day or he’d sneeze. Stealth masturbation was impossible. And then the emotions, on top of that. He could always smell when I was angry—said it was like walking into a forge. Made for some memorable fights. Hand me that candle?”

He did. “Smelling emotions from blood is almost impossible. My uncle claims he can tell, but I think it’s bullshit. Body language is all you need. As far as flavors, it’s…complicated.” He paused to frown. “Good blood smells like life. Which I know is an unfulfilling answer.”

Finished with the candles, the room was bathed in a warmer glow. The table was impressively full. Rey was very aware that to any outside observer, the scene could pass for domestic. An easy dinner. The sound of rattling plates. A young couple hiding away from a storm. 

Highly unlikely that someone would guess the truth. 

Rey gestured at the food. “Dig in.” And once she’d followed her own advice: “Explain to me the different blood types, then. Instead of life, does B negative taste like dirty old boot?” 

“When you’re hungry, anything will feed you. You don’t have to _like_ what you taste, but everyone has preferences. My mother hasn’t had O negative since the 90s.”

That really wasn’t what she asked, but she let it slide. “And sex. Does that make a difference? Same kind of hunger? Same taste?”

“You weren’t kidding about the questions,” he said, but waved off her apology. “No, it’s fine. Different hunger, but one can feed into the other. I don’t need to be hungry when I fuck someone. I’ll bite them anyway. It’s an irrepressible urge. The better the blood smells, the more I want to do it.”

“And regular hunger? What’s that like?”

“Awful.”

He said it so suddenly and forcefully that Rey froze mid-bite. She felt a drip of sour cream dribble down her chin. “Awful?” she garbled. 

“Like a slow death.” 

“Wait.” It was suddenly too challenging to swallow. Lettuce plopped down to her plate. “In the car. Didn’t you say you were hungry?”

He nodded, deftly picking up a new tortilla. “By Friday, it will be worse.”

She stared at him. When he continued to serenely layer salsa over beans, she was worried something had been lost in translation. “I’m sorry.” She finally swallowed. “But did the vampire currently sitting across from me just admit that he’s slowly dying?”

“I _feel_ like I’m slowly dying. There’s a difference.” He frowned, unfinished taco still in hand. “Where did you put the cheese?” 

“Benjamin.” 

“Every vampire knows hunger. It’s not a big deal.”

Her jaw trembled, threatening to drop in shock. All of a sudden it was difficult to remember why she shouldn’t run to the store. She’d deferred earlier, but that was before she knew he was suffering. 

Nothing was stopping her now, though. He’d probably make a show of blocking the door, but she had pointy elbows. She could escape. She didn’t like running, but she was good at it. As long as she successfully dodged all lightning strikes, she could make it back to the apartment in less than an hour. 

The real question was whether or not she needed a buyer’s card. Buying raw meat for a werewolf was obviously not a problem. Fairy food—saffron cakes and mallow fruit—was recently decriminalized. But she wasn’t sure about blood. It seemed like the sort of thing that begged for regulation. 

She’d figure it out. If they wouldn’t sell it to her, Poe was a call away. He had to know a guy. 

Where were her shoes? Ben would be fine, he—

“Mmph!” Her mouth was suddenly full of steak and cotija. 

Ben settled back in his chair, looking entirely too victorious. He’d fed her a chunk of his tortilla. He plopped the rest of it in his own mouth, then said, “Eat your food. Stop plotting.”

Eyes narrowed, she chewed. “Very ironic that you feed me when you refuse to feed yourself.”

“Do I seem hungry?” he asked. “Blood hungry?” 

He didn’t. He looked like the biggest person who’d ever sat at her table. Pale, perhaps, and with some decently dark undereye circles, but she knew her own were worse. She could see no hint of fang.

“No,” she said mulishly. “But you said—”

“I said hunger was awful. And it is, but I can control it. We learn at a young age.” 

“What’s the point, though?” She still held a chunk of taco; she looked at it, then gave up and set it on the plate. She’d eat when she understood. “Why let yourself get hungry?”

“The thing about dying is that it makes you feel more alive.” He shrugged a shoulder. Like it couldn’t be simpler. “I hope you never have to learn that for yourself, but it’s the truth.”

“So you’re a masochist.”

“I don’t think so. It’s not painful in the way that you’re thinking. Like I said, you just feel more…” He looked around the kitchen, finally pointing to her sink. “When does water taste better to you? Before or after you’ve run a mile?”

“After,” she sighed.

“After. And if you ran five, even more so. Same principle.” 

“You choose to suffer because you want an extra tasty meal?” she asked flatly, still disbelieving. “Seems like a poor trade off.” 

He grinned. “That’s because you’re not a vampire.” And when she rolled her eyes, he added, “It’s more than that, too. I like the feeling as much as I hate it. It’s suffering, but it’s also appreciation. When you’re fed and fat and happy, you forget how delicious blood can smell. You take your speed for granted, your power for granted. A little bit of hunger changes all of that. Plus,” his grin widened, “it helps in my profession.” 

“Hungry vampires make for hornier sex demons? Is this what you’re trying to tell me?”

“Demons,” he leveled a finger in her direction, “are no joke. Believe every story you’ve heard.” 

She suddenly felt tired. “I read that it was dangerous.”

“Demon-fucking? Absolutely.”

“For you to be _hungry_ ,” she stressed, glaring across the table. “This article said all kinds of things.”

“Like?”

“Like how it makes vampires more aggressive. Emotionally unstable.”

“So, moody and mean. You just described a teenager.”

She sighed. Without energy, she said, “You’re awful.”

“Guess the article was right after all.” He gently kicked her foot when she didn’t respond. “Hey. I’m the last person worth worrying about. If it gets to a point beyond bearing, I’ll tell you.” He waited, gently kicked again, and smiled when she finally kicked him back. “But it won’t. I ate four days ago. You know the longest I’ve ever gone?”

“You want me to say the word ‘year’ and I won’t. Your ego needs no further polishing.” 

He ignored her. “Five weeks. Now tell me you have tequila.”

She almost didn’t point to the shelf—his confession still felt like sharp stones in her stomach, unsettling and strange—but was eventually glad she did. 

Her co-star made a delicious margarita. 

\--

Poe called halfway through dishes. 

Ben was on drying duty, so he was the one who fetched her phone. It looked small in his hands. She felt very confident guessing that he’d hate having to use it; his thumbs would touch five letters at once. 

“What do you want to bet,” he said, finger poised to tap, “that his question has something to do with lube?”

Patting her hands on a towel, Rey thought of tomorrow’s orgy. “I would not be shocked. Tell him I need a minute.” 

While Ben answered and made small talk (“Have I ever told you you’re predictable, Dameron? Oil. Bar none.”), Rey hurriedly put away the leftovers. She was glad she’d tripled the recipe; barring a late night craving, they’d have enough for tomorrow’s lunch. When she waved and pointed to the sink, Ben mouthed _I’ll do it_. She gave him a grateful smile, then took her phone. 

“It’s me.” 

“You survived!” Poe sounded jubilant. “Nasty weather, we’re having.”

It had finally started to subside, but she didn’t bother mentioning it. “Good thing I’m waterproof.” She gave Ben a thumbs-up, then wandered into the living room. “What’s up?” 

“I just—hold on. _Martha?_ ” he called to someone, and Rey heard the faintest chime of laughter. “ _Babe, that looks great. No, I think…well, maybe. I’ll ask._ Do we have any silicone handcuffs in green?”

Rey looked to the ceiling, mentally combing through the prop cabinet. “Try the third shelf, almost all the way to the left. Should still be in packaging.”

She heard a faint rummaging, followed by a triumphant, “Excellent!” There was a short, happy exchange with Martha before his voice boomed back on the line. “Rey. How can I help you?”

She took a deep, fortifying breath. “Poe. You called me.” 

Ben snorted. 

“Of course I did.” The background noise decreased; he must have picked a set with a closed door. “Wanted to ask how you and your guest have been getting along. How have you passed the time?”

Rey wasn’t well-versed on vampire hearing, so she headed to her bedroom. It was the room furthest from the kitchen. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, shutting her door. “After I scarred him with a tour, I thought it would be a good idea to roleplay.”

“Rey!” he said joyfully, “I’m so pr—”

“Don’t get excited. I only meant to figure out what he wanted for dinner, but it turned into this whole thing.”

“Like with props?”

“No, like with acute embarrassment.” She still couldn’t believe it happened. “We’re good now, though. Had tacos. I only minorly panicked about getting him a bag of blood.” 

“Speaking of,” he said, and Rey could have sworn she heard a faint tremor of excitement, “how thoroughly have you demolished his self-control?” 

“Are you kidding? He spent ten minutes waffling on about his willpower.” She pitched her voice low. “‘I’ve gone a month without eating, Rey. I live to suffer, Rey. Pain is my strength.’ And I guess I believe him. He says he’s hungry, but hasn’t shown the slightest interest in stopping for blood.”

Poe scoffed. “Of course not. He wants yours.” 

“Doubtful,” she said, though she realized she wouldn’t mind if it were true. There was an appeal to being wanted. To being wanted by Ben. But she shook off the thought. Ridiculous—she was being ridiculous. “He’s looked at his phone more than he’s looked at my neck.”

“You didn’t notice earlier. You’re probably not noticing now.”

The possibility curled around her heart. It thumped a bit harder, and she immediately felt foolish. “What am I supposed to notice, exactly?” 

“Besides the car, have you stood next to him? Shared the couch?”

Dishes hadn’t taken long. Other than that, “No.” And then she remembered. “Well…”

“Well?”

“During our not-roleplay,” she grudgingly admitted. “He _might_ have seemed interested. Temporarily.” She tried to recall the shape of the moment. There were no fangs, no roguish snapping at the air. She would write off the entire experience—wanted to, when she realized what she’d said—except she remembered his eyes. Their darkness. 

Still, she made herself say, “I think he was acting.” 

“Ben’s a terrible actor. It’s one of the inexplicable reasons he’s so good at his job. No artifice.” A different voice rumbled on the line. Rey couldn’t hear well, but picked out _flogging_ and _practically picturesque._ Poe said something encouraging, and then he was back, his words booming. He spoke quickly. “Believe what you want, but I know what I saw. Five minutes of close contact and you’ll bring him to his knees. He talks a big game about self-control, but— _coming, darling, I’m sure you look perfect_ —I fully expect Friday’s shoot to be a wonderfully hot mess.” 

_In what way?_ she wanted to ask, but there was no time. Poe gave a hurried thanks, promised to Venmo some money for Ben’s share of the food, and hung up. 

She stayed seated on her bed. Thinking. 

It didn’t matter if Ben found her attractive. He’d said it himself: he’d bite her no matter what. Instinct ensured it. 

It also didn’t matter if she found _him_ attractive. Even though she did. His body was fantastic, but she could see herself growing fond of the person she saw underneath. Tacos had been nice. He’d made her laugh in the car. 

Poe was a liar. Not only was Ben disinterested, he was firmly in control of his bloodlust. Playing with a vampire’s self-control seemed dangerous. 

Which was why she absolutely didn’t formulate a plan to test it. 

Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how hard I tried to squeeze an orgasm in here. They refused. I upped the chapter count as an apology.


	6. Chapter 6

Where Ben had found a copy of National Geographic, she did not know.

“It’s a trade-off, having black fur,” he said by way of greeting, tapping a glossy picture of a leopard. “Superior camouflage for night hunting, but the lack of visible markings on their ears impedes communication. Or so they theorize. Also, please let me buy you better dish soap. The one you have is shit for grease. I had to scrub twice as—” His eyes caught on her outfit. “Are those ducks?”

Rey pulled the bottom half of her top away from her stomach, inspecting. “Yes. Do you believe ducks don’t deserve a place on pajamas?”

Ben wore an actual watch. Before he answered, he checked it. “It’s eight o’clock.”

“Yes.”

“You’re in pajamas at eight o’clock.”

“You’re very good at dodging questions.”

“I’ve never had a duck policy. Or a pajama policy. And congratulations, by the way. I think that’s first time you’ve asked me a direct question.”

Rey frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“My goodness, you’re on a roll.”

She decided to ignore his words as well as the mischievous glint in his eye. “Figured I might as well change. I was already in my room and _someone_ failed to tell me I’d dropped crema from my left boob to my hip.”

He flipped to a new page, trying to hide a grin. “I thought it was fetching.”

“ _Anyway,_ ” she moved from the archway into the kitchen proper, curious to see the sink, “Poe sends his regards.” 

Not a single dish left. He must have put them away.

She fiddled with the soap dispenser, wasting time. Summoning the courage to remember her plan. 

She wasn’t _nervous_ —it was just that testing a vampire’s boundaries sounded much more justifiable in the safety of her bedroom. Whether he liked her blood or not made no difference for Friday. Ben could be mildly insufferable, but he was mostly polite. Rey had fucked impolite people for free. She’d just never fucked a vampire. 

And that was what it boiled down to, really. She was curious.  
Ben had sworn he had everything under control. Poe swore that wasn’t the case. Rey was the only person involved capable of determining the truth. 

Baby steps. 

“So, biting.” She said it as offhandedly as she could, making a show of plucking her towel from its place on the oven door. Hoping he hadn’t already wiped down the counters, she started rubbing a non-existent stain by the sink. “Does it matter which part of the body you drink from? Is it the same experience regardless?”

If he found the question or its timing odd, he didn’t show it. He continued to look through the magazine. 

“The situation matters,” he said, thoroughly distracted. “You can eat a doughnut at a fair. You can also eat one during a hurricane. Vastly difference experiences. Have you read this?” He held up an article with a picture of an Egyptian tomb. “I swear they’ve been republishing the same article since 1989. Am I supposed to be shocked that pharaohs—”

“So it’s not a filet versus ground beef situation?” she asked, a little loudly. 

“—instead of their dicks? What?” His brain underwent a quick and visible reboot. She didn’t have to repeat herself. “Feet are disgusting.”

She wriggled hers inside her slippers. “It tastes different?”

Perhaps sensing that no amount of editorial rage would spark a conversation, Ben flipped the magazine shut and set it aside. “Blood is blood. Feet work as well as anything, but it’s not as pleasant. So far from the heart.” He tapped over his own. “Better to drink somewhere else. For convenience’s sake, if nothing else. Who has time to take off their shoes?”

“Even during sex?”

He shrugged. “It’s not my preference.”

“Where is your preference?” she asked, casual. So casually. Like she was inquiring after the health of someone’s cat. 

“Depends on the person.” He resettled in his seat, turning more fully in her direction. His attention was firmly refocused now, and she felt its weight. “How I feel. If I’m shooting, what I’m asked to do. The smell of their blood.” 

She cocked her head. “I thought you said blood had no smell?”

“I said it was a non-issue. I can smell it.” 

“Only when it’s spilt?”

He shook his head. The candlelight, Rey thought, did wonderful things for his hair—the sharp shadows dyed it a deeper black. “You can smell it through the skin. Not as potent, obviously, but it’s a fair preview. Enough to be enticed or repulsed.”

“Where do you bite if you’re enticed?”

She hadn’t _thought_ she sounded anything other than objectively curious, but Ben grinned. “Curious about Friday, are you?”

“Of course,” she said, bluntly honest. “I’m ticklish. If you try to drink from my leg, bad things will happen to your face.”

His grin turned smug and male. “It wouldn’t tickle.” When she rolled her eyes, he added, “If there’s somewhere you honestly don’t want me to bite, you need to tell me before we start filming. It’s difficult to override instinct without forewarning. And are you done, by the way, pretending to clean that counter?”

Caught, she paused mid-swipe. She hadn’t even been looking. In one motion, she tossed the towel over the faucet and turned around, leaning back with her legs and arms crossed. He seemed amused, which wouldn’t do, so she tried to bury the moment as soon as possible. 

“You know,” she said airily, “if _I_ were a vampire, I think I’d do things differently. And by ‘differently,’ I mean better.”

“Humor me.”

“First of all, it’s all about awareness. No more of these mysterious answers. You saw how much easier life became for the werewolves once they published that tell-all. People stopped worrying about spontaneous shifts. Normie doctors could finally quit explaining that their patients did not possess mating glands. It was a time of enlightenment.” 

“How do you know we don’t already have a PR plan in place?”

“If you do, it’s not effective. Exhibit A: Twilight. Exhibit B: the fact that I’m asking all of these questions to begin with.”

“All right, then.” Her kitchen was tiny enough that he could open half of the fridge without leaving his chair. He pulled out a half-eaten sandwich she’d been saving for a snack, unwrapping it from its paper like a prize. He spoke through his first bite: “How do you enlighten the masses?”

“A picture of this,” she paused to sweep a finger up and down at the sight before her, “would do wonders. A vampire stuffing his face with a stolen BLT. Half the world still thinks you guys would rather ravage a neck than a sandwich. The other half doesn’t even know you eat sandwiches at all.”

He seemed to consider that, chewing thoughtfully. There was a rogue dab of mayo on his chin; Rey found it strangely endearing. “So you’d start an Instagram account. What else?”

“Give real answers, like I said.”

He made a face. “I gave you real answers.” 

“You professionally dodged. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you worked in politics, not porn.” She tried to imitate him: “‘Blood tastes…good. I like biting…places. When I’m hungry, I am the embodiment of both life and death.’ I’m not accusing you of being a liar, but I could make up better answers on the spot.”

The last bite disappeared. “In your duck pajamas?”

“In _any_ pajamas.”

He wiggled his fingers at the towel, and she tossed it to him. He wiped his hands, then swept the fallen crumbs into the discarded paper. When he started swiveling in search of her trash can, Rey stepped forward, her hand outstretched. “Thanks. And that’s a bold claim.”

She pushed the trash can back under the sink. “Go ahead,” she said. “Ask me a question. Vampire Rey is ready for your thorough interrogation.” 

Much faster than she’d expected: “Why do you wear so much black?”

“We’re messy eaters and dry cleaning is expensive. Next.”

“Aren’t you allergic to the sun?”

“My brothers and sisters in Majorca would disagree.”

“What does it feel like, when your fangs descend?”

Harder, but she only needed a moment to say, “Like popping a knuckle. A natural release.”

“Not bad.” There was a bit of bemused pride in his smirk. “And hunger?”

“Mm.” His gaze was too direct; she had to look at the ceiling to concentrate. Rey thought of his earlier answer—not to the question she’d asked outright, but the one he assumed she had. “A hollowness,” she tried, and wanted to crow when his grin slowly faded. “A void that starts in my stomach and eventually claws at my throat, howling. It’s a…voice, too. It tells me blood is my birthright. That it’s what I am owed.” 

“Pretty words,” he said, much slower than before. “It seems hunger is a torment.” 

“It is.”

A hesitation. The brief moment before a gambler throws his dice. “And who should fear you, in such a state?”

“Every owner of a beating heart.”

There was a silence.

Rey hadn’t meant to say it quite so fiercely. She was only acting, she didn’t truly know _why_ she’d said it the way that she did and part of her waited to laugh but she didn’t—not when she couldn’t interpret the look on Ben’s face. 

His hands were still unmoved. He hadn’t coughed or fallen out of his chair. His eyes were as dark as they’d always been, but the candleflame was a reflected, flickering light that illuminated a dozen different emotions: pride and a small wisp of fear. Interest. Confusion, enthrallment. 

Possibly—though she couldn’t be sure—hunger. 

She felt like and unlike herself. Part of her stood firmly in her kitchen, could note with ease the hum of the fridge, the small hole she’d hidden with a calendar. This Rey did not understand why she wanted to move closer to a vampire. She had only begun to see the shape of who he was and it was almost absurd, how eager she was to learn more. She’d met him earlier. Earlier _today_ , actually, and wasn’t this how people ended up on the news? Jumping into an ocean without knowing its depth? 

Another part of her felt removed. There was a mindset, a place that she went during the few times she’d filmed before. That Rey dismissed her concerns as soon as they squawked because consequences were an abstract; she didn’t need to worry about the future. There was only the moment. In this one, she felt confident. A newly born vampire testing the strength of her power. Who recognized Ben’s, and was unafraid. 

“Does that conclude the interview?” she finally asked. He hadn’t spoken. 

For a second, she wasn’t sure what he would say. _He_ didn’t look like he knew what to say. But then he shook his head. “No,” he managed, although it was obvious he hadn’t thought of a question. 

“I could talk about blood,” she offered, and how did her kitchen feel so much smaller than before? “I’m sure you’re curious about my eating habits.”

He still seemed distracted. “How recently have you fed?”

She pretended to consider. “Just yesterday. But I don’t believe in starving myself,” she said pointedly, and felt pleased when Ben huffed. 

“No?” he grumbled, and Rey wanted to laugh because Poe was right: Ben really was a terrible actor. He was entertained, more than anything. “Well, you’re young yet. Maybe one day you’ll see the appeal.”

“ _Eating_ is appealing.”

“With such voracious hunger, do you ever have trouble finding a source?” 

She smiled, and hoped it looked sufficiently deviant. “No.” 

“In that case,” he said slowly, like he was fishing for something in the dark, “you’ve bitten enough to know your own preferences.”

Not knowing what he meant, she said, “Of course.”

“Age. Sex. Blood. I’m sure you’re magnanimous enough to drink from anyone, but you must have a type.” 

This could easily go down a road beyond her ability to bluff. She shoved her hands inside the pockets of her shorts so she couldn’t twist her fingers in plain sight. Outwardly, she hoped she sounded confident when she said, “I know what you’re really asking.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re wondering what I’d think if I saw you.” It had been a guess, but there was a slight hitch to his breath that told her she was right. “If I’d turn you away and beg for the next. Or if I’d find myself overcome, plead to drink from you for hours.” She didn’t know if such a thing were possible, but he didn’t stop to correct her. 

“And say you did.” There was a challenge in his voice. “Where would you bite?”

She stepped forward. 

He hadn’t expected it: the chair gave a quiet squeak when it shifted on the floor. 

There was enough room to stand between his legs. Looking down, she pretended to inspect. A chef judging a new piece of meat—critical, impersonal. “I think I’d start here.” She lightly kicked the inside of his ankle. He wasn’t prepared, so her kick had the unintended effect of opening his legs a bit wider. “An appetizer.”

“Unconventional.” His gaze dipped down to her own ankles. They stayed there, and her heart beat harder. She knew what he was thinking. “And after that?” 

“After that, it depends on your generosity. I only drink from the willing.”

His eyes shot back up, ink-dark. “I’m willing.” 

She hesitated, but the next breath of air sent something heady to her lungs. _Fuck it_ , she thought, and took one step closer. 

“There’s something poetic about leaving your ankles for your wrists,” she mused, rubbing her left thumb across the palm of her right. It became a surrogate for his, and Ben knew it: he followed every movement, his head dipping to keep her hands in sight. 

“I think I’d start here.” Without the nose for blood, she idly traced the skin—over the fat of her thumb, falling into the valley of her palm, and ending on the fine bones of her wrist. Her pulse was strong. “Would you flinch, when I bit you?”

“Yes,” he admitted, low.

“It’s a delicate place,” she agreed, transfixed by what he was trying to hide: his thumb had begun to rub at the side of his knee, mimicking her movements. When she stopped, he stopped. When she used the back of a knuckle to follow the vein, his own knuckle reached his thigh. “But I’d be gentle. You’d hardly know I was there.”

“How much would you drink?” 

She liked the way he’d said it—as if this were real. As if he were only a man, someone who’d stumbled into her kitchen not knowing what she planned to take.

Two fingers became fangs. She dragged them slowly across her skin, and her voice sounded dream-like to her ears. “I wouldn’t drink right away. I’d linger where it smelled best and let you wonder.” The tip of her nail found the strongest beat, then she tapped it. “I’d let you feel it more, this time. Just one fang.”

“Messy.” It seemed to slip out without his mind’s consent. 

Would it be? She hadn’t known, but, “Good. I’d let it stain your hand.”

 _So I can lick it off later_ , she thought madly. _I think I’d let it drip down so I could chase it back up with my tongue. I bet it’d taste sweet and bitter and terrible and wonderful all at once. I think I’d make a game of it. Make you watch._

“And once you were done playing with your food?”

She let her arm drop. There was some kind of spell weaving itself in the soft light. It was the only explanation for the way she leaned in, bold enough to let the tip of her nose seek the side of his neck. 

There was nothing to find, technically. He had no beating pulse; what blood he had was dead or slowly dying, always in need of replacement. She let herself imagine, though: breathing in the smell— _like life_ , he’d said—until her head was full of it, a buzzing that extended down to her teeth. 

Rey was human. She’d never be entranced by the smell of blood, would never know its true appeal, but there was enough to like about Ben without it. 

She breathed in deeply, her hands skimming the tops of his shoulders before they found the back of the chair. He was too big to escape her touch completely: her wrists registered the heat of his body, as did her cheeks. His neck _radiated_ it, though she did not know how. 

Another breath. “Here,” she said, belatedly. The tequila had long since gone, but she felt drunk all the same. “Traditional. But not without reason.” The chair made a new noise, a sound like groaning metal. She ignored it. 

“Rey.”

Her lips protested. They begged to replace the soft tracings of her nose. She almost gave in. “I think you’d like being bitten. I think you’d beg me for it.”

“Rey.”

She didn’t even know what she was saying. “Right here.” She bumped her nose gently against his skin. Cedarwood, she decided. Definitely. Something saltier, too, like sweat. “I think I’d keep you in a chair, just like this.” And she’d lost her mind because she allowed it—just the smallest, barest brushing of her lips. “I think I’d want to drink you dry.”

“ _Rey._ ”

Something was groaning again. Her eyes had slipped shut, but now they flew open. 

The _metal_ was groaning. The metal of her chair. 

Snatching back her hands, she stood up. 

“Oh, shit.” 

Cheap as it was, it was still an unexpected sight to see flattened metal. He’d _crushed_ it. His knuckles were white, his fingers gripping and clenching and releasing and gripping again like a mimicry of a heartbeat. 

His eyes were clenched shut. His mouth was slightly open, panting, and there—she gasped to see it—was the tip of a white fang. 

“Oh, shit,” she said again, her hands hovering over his head, his chest, even his knees like a medic with a tourniquet who couldn’t find the wound. “Ben, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you—” 

One of his hands uncurled from the armrest. He dragged it down his face, blocking the sight of his mouth. His quiet _fuck_ was muffled. He still hadn’t opened his eyes.

What should she do? And why didn’t she think? Teasing limits was all well and good, but she’d forgotten herself. While she was pretending to smell his neck, she’d put herself in the perfect position for him to smell _hers_ and maybe later she’d be proud to know how successfully she’d tested Poe’s theory, but right now she felt like the only witness at the scene of a crime. Untrained. Flustered. 

What did one do, in a situation like this? 

“Do you—” Frantically, she thought of something that might help. What was calming? “Tell me your feelings on lavender. I have a bath bomb. Well, it’s—I have _half_ of a bath bomb. I used most of it the day I ran out of ice cream. I shopped yesterday, though. Restocked. Can I get you a bowl of—”

Gritted, as though in pain: “Maybe…just—” He made a weak _go away_ gesture. 

She immediately took a step backward, which meant that she immediately bumped into the table. There was a crash. The room dimmed, and _fuck_ , she’d forgotten about the candle. 

There was a quick scramble to the sink, but the flame had sputtered out the instant it hit the floor. Her dustpan was nearby. She grabbed it instead, flicking on the main light and dropping to her knees, sweeping up the glass. “God,” she said over her shoulder, “I’m so sorry.”

She heard several deep, hopefully restorative breaths. “Don’t apologize.”

He sounded like he meant it. He also sounded deeply, profoundly embarrassed. Rey winced. 

“Would now be a good time to ask if I need a buyer’s card for blood?”

His breathing was no longer audible. A good sign, she hoped. “What?”

“I—you’re hungry, right? I mean, you’ve _been_ hungry. Unless I’m completely misreading the situation, I think I just made it worse.” 

_Offer your neck as an apology_ , part of her thought, and she squelched it. The moment was thoroughly demolished. Now was no longer the time. If there had ever been a time at all. 

The chair protested. He’d stood up. 

From her place on the floor, he eclipsed her refrigerator. She gathered her courage before she looked at his face, buying time by taking in the sight of his shoes (a mostly black sneaker), his pants (black, wrinkled slightly at his knees), his hands ( _paws_ , she thought, and was glad to see them unclenched), his shirt (also black, illegally tight across his chest), and his neck (thick, and…slightly red). 

“Do you have an umbrella?” he asked, and his voice was calm. 

Rey frowned. “What about the blood?”

“I don’t need blood.”

She almost dropped the glass again. “Seriously?” she said, because this was too much. “Is this senseless stoic denial a male thing, a vampire thing, or a you thing? Like I get the method acting. I do. But you were suffer—”

He cut her off. “I’m fine.” A bit more bashfully, he added, “I’m fine, now. That—I just didn’t expect it. All I need is a walk. Some fresh air.” He gestured at her window. It was still raining, but the storm had considerably calmed. “Ten minutes and you can pick something terrible on Netflix.”

Numbly, she pointed to the coatrack in her living room. She hoped he felt ridiculous walking around with an umbrella the size of a plate. She only had one. 

“Thank you,” he said, stepping past. He paused at the archway, one hand on the peeling paint. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I won’t let it happen again.” 

And then he was gone, moving swiftly, the umbrella’s fabric swooshing as he nicked it from its place, the front door creaking loudly as it was opened and shut. 

Rey stared at the glass. A small speck of red bloomed brightly on a finger. 

She sighed. 

\--

If the day had taught her anything, it was that they were destined for another catastrophe before bedtime. Impromptu houseguests, infuriatingly endless storms, jammed doors, unintentionally realistic roleplaying on _two_ separate occasions, and a broken candle—none of it boded well for the remainder of the night. 

At least they’d had tacos. 

So it was with no small amount of trepidation that Rey waited for Ben and clicked through Netflix. What did one watch with a hungry, unreasonably stubborn vampire porn star? 

Because the world was the way it was, the first suggestion was Dracula. _Only in blood do we find the truth,_ the autoplay began, and she’d never hit mute faster in her life. 

Next. 

No action, she decided. It would be too hard to guess the right thing to say when the hero slaughtered the enemy in a rain of bullets. _Do you ever think ‘what a waste of a good artery’?”_ she’d probably ask, and it was too soon. 

Series were risky. More than likely, he’d either seen them or would be bored and confused if she picked up where she’d left off. She was only on episode two of The Witcher, but where there were witches and magic and hot men in leather pants, vampires usually followed. It seemed in poor taste to make him watch someone with fake fangs get fake killed by a sword. 

Next, and next. 

Bloodline. White Fang. Bad Blood. The Vampire Diaries. Lady Bloodfight. 

Jesus christ. 

The doorknob rattled, and she panicked-clicked. 

“In addition to the soap,” a peeved voice began, “I am buying you a goddamn umbrella. You can’t tell me you actually use this thing. I was soaked before I even made it to the—really?” He pointed to the screen. “Tarzan?”

“I…” she cast about for a reasonable lie, “like the swinging. It’s a stunning display of athleticism.” 

“Loincloths. Check. Make sure you text Poe.” He brushed at his sleeve, and small river of water fell to the floor. He looked at it, frowning. “I’m going to change. Try not to drool too much while I’m gone. If you do, don’t get it on my side of the couch.”

She watched as he disappeared down the hall, small puddles trailing in his wake. 

That hadn’t been bad. In the moments she’d allowed herself to wonder, she’d pictured Ben returning with a far stormier face. Something that conveyed _how dare you_ and _just so you know, I called The Four Seasons_ when it wasn’t scowling or flushed pink with hunger. Instead he seemed…restored. 

Maybe he’d eaten? But it didn’t seem likely. 

It wasn’t long before he was back, reclad in almost an identical shirt. “Do you have any popcorn?” he asked, plopping down on the couch. “I like my allusions to colonialism with a side of salt.”

She blinked, then told him where to find it. 

Bizarre.

But she’d take it. Somehow, balance had been restored. Again. 

They only half-watched the movie. She asked where he’d walked and he told her, describing the sprites lounging in the storm drain, the muddy earth. He asked if she’d always lived in the city and she said yes, but confessed she wouldn’t mind visiting the countryside. She liked walking in green places. He nodded like he understood. 

She hadn’t expected it, but they talked about the shoot. She waited and waited for a sign of his discomfort; it never came. He used the words “biting” and “blood” and “fang” in rapid succession without so much as a twitch. 

“Kick me if it tickles,” he said, “but I really think I should bite your leg. Gets good metrics.”

“I will not be held responsible for your de-fangment,” she warned, but was ultimately persuaded. 

By the time the movie ended, Rey had begun to wonder if what had happened in the kitchen had happened at all. 

Before he disappeared behind his bedroom door, she offered a few kind reminders. He had the towels. The hot water knob needed an extra half turn compared to the cold. She might be gone when he woke, but she left a spare set of keys in the fichus plant by the door. The Wi-Fi password was taped to the router. 

“And if you get chilly, there’s—”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, not unkindly. “Stop fretting.” 

She rolled her eyes but acquiesced, shoving his shoulder hard enough to rock him further into his room. He smiled in return. 

“Sleep well.” She made it sound like a threat.

He nodded, his hair falling free of his ears, and began to shut the door. Right before it latched, he said, “Don’t forget a band-aid.” 

Rey looked down at her finger. There was a new, mocking spot of red. 

\--

 _You were very upfront about your plans_ , she tried to reason. _If anything, you should feel guilty if you_ don’t _watch porn. No one likes a liar._

True. Except she hadn’t been wholly honest, either. 

While she had every intention of watching porn, she’d neglected to mention that she intended to watch _his_.

One embarrassing, quick text exchange with Poe told her what she needed to know ( _“Kylo Ren, u pervert, and I’d rec the one with the twins”_ ) and then her phone was off and charging and she was typing before she could convince herself to be a better person. 

Dick, was her first impression. She swallowed. He wasn’t in the wrong field. 

It was almost like looking at a different person, she decided, scrolling through the videos tagged with his name. Her brain refused to connect the man who’d thrown popcorn at her face with the hulking vampire licking a bloody nipple. 

Triple-checking that her sound was muted, she clicked a video at random. 

She’d never learned to lip read and it wouldn’t have mattered if she did: she would bet anything it was standard fare dialogue, cheesy and somehow necessary at the same time. 

Kylo and—Rey double-checked—Randi had a conversation. Both of them looked uncomfortable, and from Rey’s experience, that had more to do with the latex than anything else. Soon, the conversation involved tongues. After an overdramatic zoom, Kylo flashed his teeth. There was a chase sequence, pinning, biting, and fucking. 

Rey sat cross-legged on her bed, letting the video play in its entirety. When it was over, she clicked another. Then one more. 

Then she shut her laptop. 

Some assumptions had been confirmed—he was _absolutely_ as big as he’d said, he was definitely as wide as he looked, and no amount of tricky camerawork could hide his poor acting; he could fake aggression, but it was unprofessionally obvious when he was bored—and new information was observed. 

One: not a single actor failed to scream when he bit them.

Two: he latched like a bear trap.

Three: in no shot did he ever look as hungry as he had tonight. 

“Well,” she said out loud, and waited like her walls might care to finish her sentence. When no response was forthcoming, she said it again. “Well.” Still attempting to process, she tried a final time with more success: “Well, that’s…”

The laptop went to the floor. Her hand went to her nightstand. 

As long as he never knew, this was allowed. 

Somehow, keeping her shorts on made her feel better. Did an orgasm even count if she wasn’t truly naked? If she could only feel her slick instead of see it? It felt like penance that the sound was hardly muffled at all, but it was a price she wouldn’t have to pay for long. She bit her lip with the first pass of her toy. 

She wasn’t crazy enough to turn on the vibration. Vampires had nothing on werewolves (or was it the other way around?), but supernatural hearing was no joke. There were two doorways and a hall between them; as long as she was quiet, it should be enough. 

There was a brief, laughable attempt to keep her mind free of him. When she imagined thick fingers replacing her own, drenched and sloppy, she tried to picture a stranger. 

_Short,_ she made herself think. _Hairy and blond. Smells like he lives in a lake._

But it was no use. She’d seen too much too recently. She knew the shape of his dick, had seen it wet with spit, the way every mouth had strained with the stretch. She’d seen him fucking. His uncompromising strokes, the way his back arched and his fingers clawed into skin for balance. She’d seen his snarl. The shape of his fangs. 

The toy at her entrance wasn’t big enough, but it would do. She teased herself, and everything she’d seen and known made it easy to imagine Ben doing the same. 

_“Such a pretty cunt,” he’d tell her, and his thumb would flick her clit. Cruel. “If you take this cock real nice, I might give you mine.” A smirk. “But you have to earn it.”_

She squirmed, dipping the head of her toy in far enough to feel a stretch, then pulling it out. The angle was terrible—her wrist was trapped by the band of her shorts and underwear both—but the terribleness made it better, somehow. This wasn’t how she usually got off. Every stroke was unnatural, unusual. Too easy to pretend it came from a different hand. 

_He’d soften his words with a lick, long and flat-tongued and slow. “Look at me,” he’d beg, and she’d see the wetness on his chin. Something blunt would start to push inside and he’d say it again. “Look at me, Rey. Every inch.”_

She bit her lip, pushing the toy in as slowly as she dared. Her mouth opened on a soundless gasp.

_“Good. That’s perfect.”_

Another thrust, hard enough to slap against the mess she’d made.

_“Fucking look at you.”_

One hand kept the toy stuffed inside. The other crept under her bra, squeezing and rolling. She imagined the heat of his tongue on her nipple. Wondered how it’d feel if he pierced her there—if he’d drink from her breast. 

_“Can’t wait to bite you, sweetheart. Your taste—”_

Her hips rocked harder.

_“—is going to—”_

She brought her forearm to her teeth.

 _“—tear me apart.”_

She bit hard enough to bruise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *\o/*
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read. I am so honored by the sweet things you've written. <3
> 
> On Monday, my long holiday will come to an end. This means many sad things, including far less time to write. Updates will be much longer in coming, but if you're jonesing for something to read, check out my [bookmarks. :D](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigbit/bookmarks) There are so many talented writers in this fandom. Like publishable, pinch-yourself-good. 
> 
> (also i have no idea how many chapters this story will be, ignore all the numbers, i have no idea what i'm doing, etc.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THERE IS NO SMUT HERE. D:
> 
> They'll film the porn scene in chapter nine, if you'd like to hold off. I'd totally understand. <3

Her alarm blared from across the room.

Rey saw it with one bleary eye, dream-drunk and confused. Since when did she leave her phone on the floor? 

Shifting her legs, she suddenly remembered. 

Right.

She’d come…too much. Maybe a bit too enthusiastically, if the phone really had dive-bombed from her nightstand. Once was normally more than enough—the beginning of an easy, familiar road she followed into sleep. 

She blamed Ben. Specifically, she blamed how he made it impossible to imagine Friday. 

They had a plan and the plan was good. A loving couple. A vampire husband hungry for his human wife. The sex was outlined: heavy petting by the fake window, an if-it-happens blowjob on the floor, oral and fucking on the bed. Tender missionary followed by whatever inspired them next, none of it frantic enough to compromise the shot of his bite. He was supposed to do it twice: once (newly negotiated) on her thigh, once on her neck. He’d be sloppy enough to redden the sheets.

Easy. Not something they could achieve in a single take, but that was normal. They’d start and stop and start again and their bodies might protest, but porn wasn’t designed to be natural. It was designed to _look_ natural. 

Natural-ish. 

Theoretically, Friday was a done deal. A painting framed and hung. In more practical terms, Rey had no idea what to expect. 

There was the Ben she saw on camera. Kylo. In no scene had he even marginally approached tenderness; he was merciless, his eyes tar-pit dark and unfeeling. Beautiful to behold, but every inch a vampire. If _that_ was who she fucked, she imagined hissed directives—his hands tugging her into place, words as sharp as his teeth. And she wouldn’t hate it. 

Then there was the Ben who’d shared her couch. Who’d woken her up in the middle of the night with an almighty snore, who made her wonder if she had enough pancake mix left in her cupboard for breakfast. _That_ Ben would sooner smile than snarl. It was almost easier to imagine him biting his own lip than her flesh. 

Almost. Because no amount of mental gymnastics could make her forget the state of her kitchen chair. 

Friday’s Ben would be dominant or restrained or something else entirely and Rey couldn’t quite decide the likeliest scenario. She had imagined one and then another and maybe one more and somehow, her hand refused to let go of her toy. 

_All good research_ , she reasoned, _is thorough._

Most pornstars were understandably blasé about sex toys. Still, she wondered if Ben would blush or growl if she carried hers into the kitchen for a wash. 

Her alarm was still blaring; new experiments would have to wait. 

In the dim light of gray morning, Rey put her feet to the floor and started her day. 

\--

She felt ridiculous for walking out of her room with a long-sleeved shirt, but there was no easy way to explain the teeth marks on her arm. 

_Good morning. If I seem tired, it’s because I very furiously masturbated to various iterations of your face. How do you like your eggs?_

Pancakes were safer, though she was halfway through flipping her third when she realized Ben might object to eating fried batter doused in sugar. It seemed at odds with the flatness of his stomach and the bulk of his arms, but maybe she worried for no reason. Maybe vampire metabolism was a hell of a thing. Some supernaturals tended to spit on the laws of fairness; others hog-tied it, insulted its mother, and launched it into the airless vacuum of space. 

She heard the creak of the loose floorboard in her hallway. He’d finished his shower, then. 

Shortly after: “Are you aware that your bathroom is a health hazard?” 

Rey was too busy pouring the next pancake to stop him from nabbing a piece of bacon. “You _shit_ ,” she scolded, and picked up her spatula. She tried to smack his greedy fist when he immediately went for seconds, and was too slow. The metal dinged against the countertop. “Didn’t you wax poetic about your self-control? I distinctly recall— _hey_.” 

He grinned, already at the other end of the kitchen and hunting through her mugs. A speck of bacon dotted one of his front teeth. “No one has self-control around salt-cured pork.” 

Setting down the cup of batter, Rey pivoted to defend the uncovered plate. She wielded her spatula like a sword, glaring down the length of it like a woman prepared to shed blood. “Plenty of people turn down bacon,” she said, oddly flustered. “Plenty of people find it disgusting.”

“Oh?” he said distractedly, still rifling. 

“Yes,” she insisted, watching as he pulled out her narwhal mug. He held it up, eyebrow raised. “That was a present and I love it and it deserves better than your bacon thieving hands. I forbid you to use it.”

He seemed delighted by the news. “You forbid me?”

“Officially. Yes. Put it back.”

He brought it closer to his chest. “But now I really want to use it.”

“Too bad,” she said mercilessly, hating how his hands dwarfed the ceramic. The way he cupped it was so eerily similar to something she’d imagined last night. It had been distracting then and it was distracting now and pancake flipping was a fickle, demanding art. She couldn’t afford to lose focus. “Choose something less awesome.”

There was a feeble attempt at a pout, but he couldn’t manage it for long. He was too quickly distracted, his hand disappearing back into her cabinet. 

She flipped a pancake. When Ben made a sound of disbelief, she turned her head. 

Both of Ben’s hands gripped a different cabinet knob. He held onto them like they were all that kept him from sinking to the floor. “Rey,” he said, speaking to the shelves. Hushed, like he’d found a monster and couldn’t decide if he wanted to kill it or keep it for his own. There was awe. Pity and trepidation. 

“What?” she asked, defensive. 

“You have—” He started to count and gave up. His head swiveled in her direction, his eyes radiating bemused alarm. “Is this a cry for help?”

Sliding the last pancake onto the stack of its brethren, Rey huffed. “You’re being dramatic.” 

“No,” he corrected, “I am the appropriate amount of concerned. You own eight hundred coffee mugs.”

“Hopefully you never added ‘counting’ to your resume.”

He ignored her, reaching up to pluck one of her more recent finds: real porcelain, with a touchable bust of Mozart’s face on the side. “Where did you get them all?” Before she could say something cagey like ‘around,’ he kept going: “This one is amazing.”

She watched him admire it and couldn’t help herself from saying, “Do you know how much that usually costs?” He shook his head. “I looked it up. _Fifty_ , and I got it at a garage sale for free. The guy threw it in with the dresser.”

He weighed it in his hands, considering. Then he knuckle-pointed to the shelf. “And this one?”

The foil-wrapped pancakes went into the oven. She clonked it shut with her hip and joined him, smiling when she saw the one he meant. It was lopsided and a truly appalling shade of beige. “I made that, actually. Drunkenly.”

“How does one drunkenly make a mug?”

“Too many Long Islands and a key to my friend’s studio.” Rose had found her slumped over the pottery wheel the next morning, snoring into a lumpy plate. “I’ve made better ones since. That one,” she pointed out an unassuming green, “and the one with—well, you can barely see it, but it’s got wee spikes around the rim.”

“Coffee with a side of bodily harm,” he said, not sounding like he minded. 

“Innovative, some might say.” Her eye caught on a tentacle. “I got the octopus from someone on Craigslist. Went to buy a sewing machine and we ended up talking in her kitchen. She was getting ready to move. Sold it to me for a dollar.”

“Mm,” he acknowledged. There was a pause before he asked, “Been collecting a long time?”

“Ever since I got this apartment,” she admitted, and started to hunt for the one shaped like a beaker. Might as well grab her coffee, too. “I was homeless, for a stretch. Couldn’t keep much, but I always had a mug. That one, actually.” She tapped on blue tin speckled with white. “I promised myself I’d one day have a place to put it. Once I did, I just—” she trailed off, because the evidence spoke for itself. 

Her past wasn’t a secret. She didn’t mind talking about the shelters or the tree with good, sturdy branches for sleeping in the park. In her experience, it was more traumatic for whoever it was that listened. They tended to awkwardly shuffle, mumbling confusing apologies and eyeing the nearest open door. 

Ben only nodded. “Do you have a favorite?”

“Depends on the day. Hold on.” A memory resurfaced. She turned to face him more fully, trapping him between the counter and her fridge. “Did you insult my bathroom?” 

She appreciated that he didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“A health hazard, you said. Did I leave something on the floor?”

“No.”

“Did my nonslip bathmat run away in the middle of the night?”

“No, but you’ve got a loose tile the size of my skull right above the showerhead. When I wasn’t stealing your bodywash, I was contemplating the odds of getting concussed.” Rey sniffed. He _had_ used her soap. She was close enough to smell the gardenia. “And while I admire the ingenuity, it’s probably not code to hide your electrical wires under Tupperware with double-sided tape.”

“Is it your general policy to be so insulting?” she asked, deeply curious. “Maybe I like my shitty soap and my tiny umbrella and my hazardous bathroom.”

He cocked his head. “I’m not insulting you. Wait.” He studied her face, suddenly apprehensive. “Do you feel insulted?”

She thought about it and decided, “No. Rose has been begging me to replace that lamp for months, and I’ve hated that umbrella since I bought it. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. But,” she stressed, pressing the side of her mug against his sternum, “I think you need to make it up to me, anyway.” 

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “For clarity’s sake, would you mind telling me if you mean that sexually? Not that I’m _opposed_ to another round of Is This or Is This Not Roleplay, but neither of us have had coffee. I’m afraid it would affect my performance.”

“Just say something nice,” she said quickly. For some reason, she hadn’t moved her mug. It was still glued to his chest. “Doesn’t even have to be about me.” 

He hummed once. She felt it vibrate up her arm. Her feet were stuck, unable to move away as she watched him study her, his eyes flitting from her own to her cheeks to her outstretched arm and back again, a loop that ignited something warm in her heart. Then he looked out the window, probably because he had settled on complementing her Windex skills, or—

“Thank you for cleaning your bathroom,” he said, his head still turned. “It’s bigger than I thought.”

“A nice attempt,” she said dryly, “but still somewhat critical. Try again.” 

“You know how to sear a steak.”

She smiled. “Much better,” she praised, and made to lower her arm because there was no longer an excuse to keep it in place. It was time for coffee and copious amounts of syrup. 

Except he lightly gripped her elbow. She stared at it, then back up at him. It was hard to read the look on his face. 

“You’re patient,” he eventually said, like it was his duty to convince her it was true. “Not just with me. And you’re good. You panic about buying blood for a stranger—not because you fear me, but because it upsets you to think I might be in pain. Me. The vampire who complimented your lampshades.”

“To be fair,” she started, and why was it hard not to whisper? “I have excellent taste.”

At least he was honest enough not to nod. He did smile, though—small and somehow private, even though they were the only two people in the room. His hand adjusted its grip on her elbow, and she wouldn’t look down, didn’t want to know for sure if his thumb really did rub against her skin like that or if it was all in her head. 

She was closer than before, her arm bent, and she should say something, repay his kind words with words of her own— _tell him he buys nicely fitted pants_ , her brain offered wildly—but there was a new crease between his brows. Ben took an intentional breath and he was sniffing, actually, she could see the twitch of his nose, silent in concentration. 

The bacon was unburnt. The cast iron was off the stove and cooling. She had taken a shower, and nothing was overly expired in her fridge. Unless he was sensitive to moldy cheese? 

“Did you—” He took another deep breath, only this time he looked at her forearm. Target locked and acquired. “When did you hurt yourself?” 

_My bite,_ she realized, and panicked. “I didn’t hurt myself.” 

He frowned when she said it, then sniffed again. “You have a bruise,” he said, shaking his head, and traced an almost perfect outline over her sleeve. “Right here.”

“You can smell that?” she asked, disbelieving, and it was the most unnecessary question in the world. He obviously could—he was looking right at it, had released her elbow only to slide his hand down, his fingers curling up around her forearm until he almost, almost touched the faint bruising beneath. 

She watched, mesmerized, as his free hand went to the cuff of her sleeve. The shock of his fingers on her bare skin threatened to set her brain on fire and freeze it, all at once. 

_Stop him_ , part of her begged. There was only one conversation they could have at the end of this road, and it involved sputtering, blushing, and blatant unprofessionalism. 

Only stopping involved the end of the present moment, and it was strangely captivating to watch Ben roll up her sleeve. He did it with a tenderness more befitting of a terrible wound—gently, like each new inch of skin demanded a great sacrifice and he wished to spare her pain. She half-expected him to coo. 

At the first glimpse of purple, she managed to find her voice. “It’s not a big deal,” she said faintly. “I don’t even remember how I got it.” 

One last folding would unveil it completely, and Ben hooked his finger under the fabric, tugging it up, stretching the cotton so he could pull it over her bruise without touching it. As if she hadn’t already banged it half a dozen times since waking up. 

And there it was. 

She winced. Shit. It looked so much worse than she’d originally thought—not because of the color, but because of the shape. 

It was clearly, guiltily mouth-shaped. 

“So,” she said, much higher than normal, “it’s a funny story, but that is absolutely not what you probably think it—”

“Who bit you?”

He sounded confused, but also mildly…miffed? She tucked that away for a later, less awkward moment. One where she wasn’t a heartbeat away from inventing a story about her haunted bedroom and its hungry, corporeal ghosts. 

“Well, I—” _Think, think, think. Rogue dentures?_ “Me,” she finished lamely, because if Ben was a terrible actor, she was a terrible liar. 

“You.” 

“Yes,” she said, and bit her tongue. Elaboration wasn’t required. He couldn’t make her admit what she’d done. She’d run away first. Step one: reclaim possession of her arm.

Miracle of miracles, he didn’t ask why. “It smells fresh,” was all he mumbled, and was he leaning down? Bringing his nose closer? “Can I—?” 

She waited for him to finish, both curious and afraid of what he wanted. But he didn’t. The air felt viscous, the movement of his head slow enough to convince her he faced an invisible resistance. It didn’t seem like he was breathing. Her coffee mug hung limply from her hand and in a world so big and vast, surely stranger things were happening in other kitchens, but in this one Ben was wetting his lips and her heart started to gallop and she _still_ didn’t step away because she had to know if he really would—

He licked her. 

The warnings were all there, and it was still a surprise. 

Rey made an embarrassing sound, half laugh (it _tickled_ ) and half hiccup, jerking once in his grip. “Um,” she managed. There was more to say but she couldn’t concentrate: his licks were slow—almost more of a pressing, like a cold washcloth dabbed on a feverish cheek—and audible, his tongue spreading the wetness. Working it into her skin.

She wanted to melt.

His intent was apparent. Everyone had a small, diluted form of vampire saliva in their medicine cabinet. Effective for minor cuts and bruising, but hardly worth the hassle. It took its time working; unless someone was petrified of scarring, it was easier to heal naturally. 

Except when Ben pulled away, her forearm looked unblemished. If she hadn’t seen the shine of his spit, she would have second-guessed that he’d done anything at all. She would have second-guessed that she’d bitten herself in the first place. 

The bruise was gone. 

He straightened up like a man finally uncased from stone. 

Finally, Rey tugged at her arm. He released it like he couldn’t remember grabbing it to begin with, his awareness slowly returning with each new blink. Like he’d been trapped in a darkened room and only just managed to find his way out. 

Rey was at a loss. What did one say in such a moment?

_Thank you for healing me with your magical saliva._

_How often do you lick strangers before breakfast?_

_Would you mind telling me if you found that erotic? Or was it more like dusting an urn? I am currently too respectful to stare at your crotch, but my cunt is curious. Madly curious. And also wet._

Rey cleared her throat. He jolted, hearing it, and his eyes snapped to her face. She could see him gathering the kindling for a panic bonfire, but the only solution her addled brain could invent was an awkward, slow pat on his shoulder. Like he’d just lost a Little League game. Or dropped his ice cream in the dirt. 

It was horrendous. 

She immediately wanted to take it back—especially when his eyes swapped panic for abject bewilderment—but the worst thing they could do was linger. 

“Could you pour me a cup?” she asked too quickly, and pressed her mug into his hand. He held it like he wasn’t sure what it was, still silent. “Black. No sugar or anything. And grab the plates. I’m going to—I’m going to go pee, yeah? In the toilet. So I’ll be right back.” Jesus _fuck_. “Pretend the bacon doesn’t exist.”

She left before she could give him a thumbs-up. 

The bathroom was still recovering from the steam of Ben’s shower. The air was heavy with fragrance—her soap, mostly, but also something deeper. Earthy and male, like labdanum. 

He’d hung up his wet towel. She found herself reaching for it, but snatched a different one instead. 

“You are an idiot,” she growled to the mirror. Then she closed the toilet lid, sat down, held the cotton to her face, and smothered her miserable groan.

\--

Rey had never given much thought to blood. Like the electricity that charged her phone or the gas that powered her shitty car, it was thanklessly appreciated. She was aware of its necessary function, she was aware she had it, but she had _never_ been so aware of its power. The concept of her blood as something enticing was almost unfathomable. 

Also obvious: there were a thousand ways to lose it. 

Papercuts at the gym membership desk. She could pinch her skin until it tore if she wasn’t careful with the weight racks. Stray water bottles and irresponsibly placed towels begged for tripping and contusions. Roughly half of their members were supernaturals—if she asked politely, surely a kelpie wouldn’t mind honoring his ancestors with some old-fashioned limb tearing. _Delicious_ , he might say, gnawing at her femur. _Just like granddad promised._

Sitting at lecture was safer, but it was hard to concentrate on lift and drag coefficients when her pencil was five clicks away from becoming a weapon. The desks were halfway to falling apart—there were protruding bolts, jagged bits of wood composite, and uneven legs perfect for launching sharp things to the floor. 

Her professor caught her before she could slip out the door. “You seem distracted,” she said, and how had Rey never noticed the size of her canines? They were practically ice picks. 

Rey mumbled something about hunger, vicious hunger and patted her stomach, nodding attentively when the other woman shared her recipe for granola. 

Dog-walking was uneventful. She made a game of finding the color red. She was disturbingly good at it: roses, siding, children’s firetrucks and taillights of passing cars. By the time she drove away, her count had surpassed two hundred. 

Technically, the day’s obligations had been fulfilled. She could go home. 

She found herself reluctant. 

Her post-lick trip to the bathroom had not worked as theorized. Unlike the awkward moments they’d had before, time apart was not powerful enough to repair the morning’s damage. There was talking— _normal_ talking, where he asked about her day (working at the gym, attending her lecture, walking five dogs) and she asked about his (finding a coffee shop for work, checking in on his car), but there was a new distance. Like they were speaking across a continent and not a table. 

He’d eventually disappeared into the guestroom, mumbling something about a phone call. When she fetched her purse, she passed his door and heard nothing at all. 

She had no idea which Ben she’d find when she returned—if he’d spent his free hours compiling a list of complaints or if he planned on composing an apology with his own heart’s blood. Both options seemed equally likely.

As long as she didn’t go home, she didn’t have to know his choice. 

She opened her Lyft app with a sigh. 

Demand was high for reasons she didn’t question. There was a $25 bonus for a five ride streak and it seemed as good a plan as any. 

The first three rides were unremarkable—two from the airport and one from a hotel, all of them normies. Rey sized them up as they approached, picked the right playlist (one “fucks with the lights off” and two “has a drunken back tattoo”), and juggled small talk as she navigated traffic. Two of them were kind enough to tip. 

Rey’s fourth was a scheduled pickup. Her name was Amarantine, and when she strode toward the car, Rey immediately knew four things:

1\. Amarantine wore a very expensive business suit  
2\. Amarantine was a vampire  
3\. Amarantine would not care to answer questions about being a vampire, but  
4\. Rey would ask them anyway

After a brisk hello, Amarantine furiously tapped at her phone. There were several brief calls (“I’ll de-dick you if you lose that account, Harold. Remember London?”) and plenty of disgruntled faces—all of it enough to convince Rey she’d lose a tip when she asked, 

“I love that you travel. Does blood taste differently in other countries?”

Amarantine’s thumbs didn’t stop, but they did move less aggressively. She spared Rey a single, withering glance. “I never drink local blood. I carry my own stock.” 

Of course she did. “Is that practical?”

Her eyes said _practicality is for the poor_ , but her lips said, “Not always.” 

It was a clipped answer. Honest, and one that very clearly conveyed that she wasn’t eager to give another.

Too bad.

“I only ask because I’m…dating a vampire.” It was easier than the truth. “We’re looking to travel.” 

A sound of utter disinterest. 

“Trying to reignite the relationship and all that. I’m afraid we’re different people.” 

“I see.”

Rey thought of the noise he’d made when her lips touched his neck. The glassiness of his eyes in the kitchen, the pupils darker than pitch. The way he’d licked her. The rub of his thumb. 

“He used to look at me a certain way. Hungry, you know? For what I had to say, not just my blood.” She tried to say it like she wasn’t seeking sympathy. “So I wonder what’s changed. He swears I smell the same, but I’m not sure if I believe him. Is it—you look like someone with a refined palate.” Amarantine stopped typing. Their eyes met in the rearview mirror. “I realize it’s an odd favor, but could you settle my nerves?”

“By describing your smell?”

Rey nodded. 

“I’m assuming you mean the smell of your blood.” 

Rey nodded again. 

Amarantine sighed, much like a parent folding to the demands of their child. With one last, longing look at her phone, she turned it upside down on her lap. Closing her eyes, she shook her head in a I-can’t-believe-I’m-doing-this way, and rocked forward on her seat. “Give me your hand. I can’t smell a thing with that air freshener.” 

Awkwardly, Rey did. Amarantine gripped it impersonally, much like a handshake. She lowered her nose to the skin of Rey’s wrist, inhaling deeply. She could only indulge quick checks, but Rey wondered if Amarantine made the same faces at a wine tasting. 

It took longer than Rey was expecting. To fill the silence she babbled, “He’s only ever said that I smell like ‘life,’ which I don’t think is _untrue_ , necessarily, but it never really felt like the whole truth, either.”

“Because it isn’t.” Amarantine made the same sound Rey did when she had to choose between two dishes on a menu. She started to raise her nose, but moved it to a new spot instead. “Everyone has a unique signature. Yours reminds me of something very specific.” 

More curious than she’d expected, Rey asked, “Really?”

“Yes. Let me think. You can have your hand back, now.” 

Rey used it to recheck her navigation. Two minutes to their destination. 

Amarantine folded her arms, pursing her lips as she stared at the roof. Deliberating. Without eye-contact, she said, “You realize that all vampires are different. What I smell may not be what _he_ smells. Some people love shellfish. Others are allergic.” She sniffed, point made. “That being said, have you ever been to Paris?”

Warily, Rey answered, “Not yet.”

“Right.” Perhaps recognizing the end of the route, Amarantine reached for her bag. She rifled through it as she spoke, tossing her phone in one of the pockets. “One of my favorite restaurants is the Guy Savoy. I make it a point to reserve a table every trip. Very refined, if lacking exclusivity.”

The roads were still busy. Rey started hunting for a safe spot to park. “Sounds lovely.”

“Quite. One of their best dishes is the candied endive leaves. The last time I dined, I was piggish and ordered two. You can pull over by the park,” she instructed, looping her arm through her purse straps. She rested a hand on the back of Rey’s seat until the car stopped, then reached for the handle. 

Too intrigued to let her leave without an answer, Rey prompted, “And I remind you of the endives?”

“No. You remind me of the smell when I vomited them into the Seine.” The door swung open. “Take care.” 

She tipped ten dollars. 

\--

Her apartment was empty. Wherever Ben had gone, he had yet to return. 

Wandering into the kitchen, she found a note.

_Rey,_

_Visiting my parents. They’re in town, and sometimes I pretend to be a good son. Not sure when I’ll be back, but please refrain from clubbing me with your polo stick when I do. And yes, I found it. An effective if unique method of home security._

_I ate the rest of the tacos. I think I’d be sorrier, but they were delicious. Please accept my apology in the form of poorly seasoned chicken. It’s in the container next to your disturbingly old fried rice._

_Ben_

_P.S. I trapped a spider under your T-Rex mug. I don’t do well when they’re hairy._

Still holding the paper, she looked at the lone mug on her counter. It moved. 

Pretending like she hadn’t seen it, Rey opened the fridge. Then she clutched at the door for support. 

Full. Every inch. Fresh fruit and vegetables—she hadn’t known it was _possible_ for celery to be that green—almost overflowed from her drawers. He hadn’t thrown out her yogurt, but there were three new ones stacked beneath. There was meat, too: organic chicken and thick cuts of steak, pork loins and chops and—she picked up an unfamiliar package—lamb? And she’d need to check her cabinets, but there could hardly be a free container left. There was cooked chicken, yes, but something that looked like eggplant, too. A soup. _Two_ soups. At least three cups of freshly made rice. 

She didn’t have the strength to check her freezer. 

“Okay,” she said to herself. “This is—all of this is fine.”

Her feet carried her to the bathroom. Because she hadn’t asked and he hadn’t needed to, but she felt compelled to verify what couldn’t be true. 

Only it was. She stared at the new fixture on her ceiling with stunned eyes. When she flicked the light switch (her _do not touch_ tape had been removed), the room was illuminated with a clean glow. 

“Still fine,” she explained to her toothbrush. 

Off went the light. Slowly, she backed into the hallway. 

Halfway to her room, she froze. Because…

She flew back into her living room, reaching for her doorknob before she could convince herself she shouldn’t. 

It turned. Like she’d met a predator in the forest, she inched to her purse, nearly tip-toeing, keeping her eye on the knob like any sudden movement might spook it into deadly action. She fished for her keys without blinking, found them, and isolated the one she wanted. 

The key slid home. Better than it ever had before. 

She breathed. Locked her door. Unlocked it. Locked it again. 

Rey turned her head, ready to reassure her blankets that they shouldn’t fret, everything was fine, but, “Fuck me.” 

They’d all been folded. She hadn’t noticed when she walked in, but her mountain of blankets was now a folded mountain of blankets. Freshly laundered, if she could trust her nose. There wasn’t a laundromat nearby; she used Poe’s to save money, carting her full hamper down the stairs to her car. It was a hassle and a half. 

She grabbed the topmost blanket, rubbing the patchy softness of it, and didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter seven of a porn AU and our leads haven't fucked. No, I don't know why I am the way I am. 
> 
> You'll notice that I no longer know how long this will be. Ten chapters? Twelve? Who knows. I'll finish it, though. 
> 
> I hope you're having a lovely day. :D
> 
> I'm [@talltig](https://twitter.com/talltig) on Twitter. <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: there's blood in these here waters.

“You’re avoiding me,” Rey announced. 

Ben, currently avoiding her in the living room, said, “No, I’m not.”

He was lying and she had the receipts. 

She’d waited as long as she could in the kitchen that morning, furiously calculating and recalculating her schedule. She could speed; she could take the side lane shortcut; she could steal her manager’s on-site parking spot and buy him a smoothie for forgiveness; she could call Finn and ask if he’d swap shifts. Anything to make more time. She had words to say and Ben needed to hear them. 

His chicken parmesan was divine. She needed the recipe for his rice soup, and she’d already packed away the eggplant for lunch. She’d smiled when she brushed her teeth because she could _see_ herself brushing her teeth and she’d already unlocked the door twice for fun. It had taken real self-coaching not to fall asleep in a blanket-burrito on the couch.

She needed to thank him, and hug him probably, and he refused to leave his room. 

She had no idea when he’d gotten home. Late. But even sleepy guests liked breakfast. She’d made a scramble, gleefully tossing in some of her new, fancy cheese. It sat cold on the stovetop. 

Eventually, she was forced to leave. Writing a thank you note felt too impersonal, so she settled on waiting. Her shift was short, there were no dogs to walk, and Lyft was a skippable choice. She could be back early and she eventually was—disappointed to realize he’d left too, but confident in his return. 

The doorknob finally rattled at noon. Back for lunch, she guessed, and she almost wriggled on the couch in excitement. He saw her after he turned the lock, his eyes widening. 

Ben froze when she pounced, squeezing him in a hug and blabbering on about light switches and spiders under cups and overpriced, delicious cheese. He’d listened and offered a pained smile. Then he disappeared into his room, waving his cell phone like a magical excuse. He’d found creative ways of avoiding her ever since. 

She couldn’t stand it. It was nearly time for dinner, and the farce needed to end.

“No one likes a liar, Ben.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” he grumbled. “I’m sitting in a different room. People do it all the time.” 

“That’s no reason. People do plenty of senseless things. Case in point: noodling. Although,” she said thoughtfully, “I do admire their bravery. Cowards don’t stick their hands into muddy holes in the river. Cowards _do_ eat their grilled cheese in their co-star’s bathroom.”

There was a flash of guilt before he narrowed his eyes. “Prove it.”

“That’s unnecessary. Only one of us left breadcrumbs in the shower, and it wasn’t me.”

He fidgeted on the chair. His eyes traveled to the window—gauging its size, she guessed, and the possibility of scaling down the side of her building without incurring massive bodily harm. 

“Your shoulders will never fit,” she commented. Then, when he started eyeing her blankets like he might fashion them into a parachute, she rolled her eyes. “It’s Thursday. We’re having sex tomorrow.”

Ben raised an eyebrow that said, _And?_

“And you refuse to be in the same room as me. I’m worried what will happen when you see my tits. All likely scenarios based on your current behavior have me concerned.”

“You have scenarios?”

She counted on her fingers. “One: you faint. Two: you growl menacingly, then faint. Three: you growl, you run away, and you faint somewhere in private.” 

“That’s an inordinate amount of fainting.”

“I’ll pack my smelling salts.” She waited for even the ghost of a grin. When he refused to stop studiously inspecting the leaf of her fichus, she let her voice go soft. “What’s going on? Are you…” She didn’t want to say it, but she did. Better to know now than tomorrow. “Would you like to back out? I can call Poe if—”

“No,” he cut her off, quickly enough that she had to suppress a grin. “It’s just—” He rolled his jaw, then growled. Frustrated. “I’m sorry.”

She raised an eyebrow. “For?”

He blinked at her, disbelieving. Like he was waiting for the cruel punchline to a joke. 

She stepped closer—happy, at least, that he didn’t flinch. “For fixing the end of my supremely shitty day? You bought me comté. Like I don’t even know where you found it. I’ve never seen it in the stores nearby. And my lock? Do you know how often I’ve attacked that thing with a power tool? How could I care that I smell like leaf-puke when _that’s_ my new reality?” He looked confused, but she didn’t care to relive the past. “If the reason you’ve been sulking is because you’re sorry, then I’d like to know why. Because I’m at a loss.”

Slowly, like he was being forced to explain something impossibly simple to someone impossibly dumb, he said, “I licked you.” And when she didn’t react: “In the kitchen.”

“In the kitchen with your tongue, yes. My apartment is not a Clue board. I remember.” 

“You remember that I licked you,” he repeated, like he didn’t believe it. 

“Yes.”

A pause. “And you recall that I did it without your permission?”

Was _that_ his hang up? “Ben. I could have walked away. I’ve met toddlers with a meaner grip. And you _did_ ask. I just—” she hesitated, her self-consciousness finally making an appearance, “didn’t want you to stop.” 

“Say that again.”

Rey had felt very brave, thus far. The hours apart had given her time to think and she liked him. He’d given her reasons to like him and she liked him. She spent too many hours cutting through the bullshit of others to abide her own. 

He wasn’t in town to visit a friend. Poe didn’t run a wholesome business and Rey wasn’t a virgin. She’d seen Ben’s fang and liked it. She’d touched her own neck more in the past forty-eight hours than she had in forty-eight months and it wasn’t because she was worried. She was _excited_ and it felt good, truthfully, to look at her kitchen chair. 

_I did that_ , she thought. _Me. And with stinky blood, no less._

The whole week had been unusual, but when had she ever cared about living a normal life? 

If she was horny for a vampire, she gave herself permission to admit it. 

Of course admitting it privately was different than admitting it publicly. Especially when he looked at her like that—like she’d offered him a slice of a dream he never expected to experience. That he’d wanted all along. 

His hands tightened on the armrests. “Rey,” he begged.

She looked him in the eye. “I didn’t want you to stop,” she said boldly, “so can we please spend our last night doing something other than acting ridiculous? I thought we could practice. Not—” she rushed to say, when his eyes brightened, “that. Not yet.” Why was she flustered _now_? “It probably wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“I disagree.” His voice was rolling thunder, and _fuck_. 

Diffuse. She needed to diffuse. “Before we started this conversation, you pretended to take at least five fake phone calls. We don’t need to practice fucking. We need to practice being in the same room. Being comfortable.”

There was a new crease between his brows. “I’m comfortable with you.”

“Are you?” she challenged. “Because if we’re embracing the truth, I think you need to admit that you’re hungry.” His nostrils flared, but he didn’t correct her. “Let’s just…we’re supposed to be married, right? Let’s act like we’re married. Pretend my blood is old news. Like you’ve had it for years.” 

“How would that make a difference?”

She drew up short. “Well, it—you get used to things, over time.”

Ben frowned, but he didn’t object. “So, you’re my wife.”

“Yes.”

“I would touch my wife.”

She swallowed. “One would hope.” 

“Am I allowed to touch you?” It was disarming, how quickly he’d abandoned any pretense of indifference. He spoke slowly, like his words were dipped in something viscid and thick. “Wife?” 

There was a dare in the way he leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs. 

It only seemed right to match him, to take a step closer. She felt like she’d conquered a nation when the rhythm of his breathing faltered—his head unmoved but his eyes tilted up, watching from beneath his lashes. Awaiting her word. 

She reached out a hand. His cheek was hot as she cupped it. “Is that what my husband wants?”

His eyes creased when he grinned. Devilish. “Yes.” 

“Then touch me,” she said, and meant it. 

\--

Dinner was an unhurried, pleasant thing. Ben had once again recalibrated: his flighty aloofness melted, replaced with a personality Rey more easily recognized. He was snarky, again. Prone to slinging opinions about National Geographic. He liked overwhelming her—those moments when he could catch her off guard, elicit a helpless flush in her cheeks—and didn’t hide when he felt the same. She could surprise him, too. 

They talked about nothing and she liked it. Liked it more when his foot tapped against hers under the table. Even more when he caught her hand mid-gesture and refused to let it go. 

“…which is why I’ll never eat arugula without a—that’s distracting.” 

Ben continued to rub his thumb against her palm. His gaze was unrepentant. “You don’t need two hands to tell a story about a sandwich.”

“Half of what makes this a good story is the added flair. You’re monopolizing one of my tools.”

“Good storytellers adapt and overcome.”

“You just made that up.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t make it any less true.” He added in the light scrape of a nail. Kindly, he didn’t react when Rey shifted on the chair, exhaling a sharp breath. “I thought we were supposed to practice overcoming distractions?”

“That,” she pointed one of her free fingers at his mouth, “was cheeky.” 

He grinned—cheekily, of course—and continued to play with her hand. 

Their evening continued on. It was, Rey decided, a bit like being thrust into the middle of a game without knowing its rules with a coach who only spoke backwards, a playing field that belched impervious fog, and opponents who had never known mercy. As soon as she adapted to one reality (the brush of his hand on her shoulder as he passed to grab her kettle), another one took its place (the way he held his breath when she leaned her chin on his shoulder). In the end, it was less about winning and more about survival. 

She started dishes after sending Ben on a mission to her room. If he could battle her doorknob and win, he could claim victory over her cockeyed shelf. 

The water was hot, her bougie new soap bubbled, and Rey wondered how she smelled. 

_Like expensive vomit_ , her brain supplied helpfully, and right. That was right. 

She hadn’t been upset to hear it. It was more like having someone criticize the color of her coronary artery. Or the mole on her left foot. Unwarranted, perhaps, but too strange to be cruel. 

Having never eaten endives, Rey had no particular insight to their smell. But there had to be worse things. Rotten eggs. Something left bloated and rotting on the beach. Under pain of death she would not enter a bathroom after an ogre; Poe had had to beg for her forgiveness after the incident with the plunger and hot wings.

However she smelled, she had to assume it wasn’t an immediate assault on anyone’s nostrils. Normies didn’t count, but her werewolf ex could smell a cough drop in a crowded subway car; he’d remark when she smelled like _other_ people, but never complained otherwise. Eighty-five percent of their sex involved licking. Amarantine and Ben were the only vampires she knew by name; others had surely smelled her, though, and she couldn’t recall a stranger gagging in public. 

Still—why would Amarantine lie? Her words held the weight of truth. 

Rey picked up a dish and scrubbed, imagining it was her skin.

Poor Ben. At least he had his hunger. 

His reactions made sense, knowing that. Holding his breath. Barring yesterday morning, keeping his nose away from her skin. It was a good thing they’d decided to practice. Even if she tasted good (because she had to assume Ben requested her blood type for a reason), he obviously needed time to get used to the smell. She could relate: boiled eggs reeked of sulfur; she still ate three in a sitting. 

Hands slid around her hips.

“I think that dish is clean.” He crowded her against the sink, his belt a firm pressure against her waist. “Also, is the glitter on your dildo an aesthetic accident or a preference? Because if it’s a need, there’s something my dick and I should confess.”

The plate plopped into the water, slipped from her numb hands. “ _No_.” 

“No? You’d prefer to be surprised?” 

“No, I did _not_ leave that on my floor.” Distantly, she was aware that her lungs struggled to expand. Humiliation robbed her of breath; her words were choked. “I didn’t.”

“You did,” he said cheerily. “I almost tripped on it. Thank god for the glitter. I never would have noticed it, otherwise.”

Her legs must have wobbled: Ben gripped her harder, supporting her weight. Cruelly, her brain reminded her that in addition to being sparkly, that particular toy boasted an external vibrator shaped like a unicorn’s head. She’d bought it on clearance for fifteen dollars when she was desperately horny and poor and was it too late to return it? Could she cite “abject mortification” on the form? 

“And who’s Midas?”

She almost fainted. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“Well, I was curious.” 

“You _touched_ it?”

“I didn’t touch it. I examined it from a semi-respectful distance.” His big hands swept up and down her sides, tempering his words with soothing warmth. “The marker held up well. Faded, but clear. Did you use a Sharpie?”

A soapy hand covered her eyes. The water dripped down, spotting her shirt. “I was drunk.”

“You make very interesting drunken choices. Sculpting dodgy mugs and labeling your dildos. Most people just call their ex.”

She moaned faintly, as if in pain. 

“So I’m right? You name them?” Gently, he pulled her hand away from her face. He picked up a nearby towel and leaned over her shoulder, patting away the worst of the wetness. She refused to open her eyes. “How’d you settle on ‘Midas’? Wait.” He replaced the towel with his lips—not a kiss, but a firm press so she could feel the shape of his smile. “Does it have something to do with his golden to—”

“Thank you,” Rey blurted. “Thank you, yes. I no longer need you to speak.” 

“Do you have a suggestion box?” He gathered her up closer, still grinning against her cheek. “If you have a thing for royalty, I have some ideas. Have you already used ‘King Dong’?” His laugh was a rumble against her spine when she tried to bite his nose. He dodged her easily, then nipped at her ear, laughing again when she sputtered. “Don’t be embarrassed. Masturbation is a perfectly healthy, natural act.”

“You’re…I can’t even think of an adjective,” she said, flustered. “Too many apply.” 

“Delightful?”

“Absolutely not.” 

“Delightfully charming?”

“Horrible,” she decided. “You’re horrible.” 

“Horrible.” He repeated it like it was a word he’d once heard but never bothered to learn. His arms rocked her slightly; Rey felt like she stood at the bow of some mighty ship. He hummed once—a ponderous sound—then leaned closer, whispering into her temple. “I guess my work’s not done.” 

Her heart had only just stopped galloping. Was it possible, she wondered, to feel so thoroughly embarrassed as to be reborn? Ben’s words reached her slowly, like they’d been filtered through stone. “What?”

“My wife deserves a full fridge,” he said, and she stiffened because that—that was his hand. That was his hand and those were his knuckles, dragging against the side of her breast. “Bathroom lights that work. A door that locks and makes her feel safe. Clean blankets.” His hand dipped lower, playing with the drawstring of her pajamas. “And a husband who knows how to take care of her. Say it, Rey.”

There was a buzzing in her ears. She watched as he tugged on the end of the string, as the knot slowly came undone. “Say what?” Her voice was weak, the question pushed out on the end of a breath. 

“Tell me what you deserve.”

Hesitantly, like she was approaching the edge of something unknown, she tried, “A full fridge?” And then she gasped because that must have been the right answer: his right hand disappeared beneath the elastic, the band stretching under new bulk. 

“Good,” he said, voice deep, and Rey couldn’t tell what he praised. Her words or what he felt. “What else?”

The world had started to spin. She gripped the edge of the sink, her head tilted down so she could watch his hand work deeper, his fingers skimming over the top of her underwear, petting her through the fabric. She made a confused, frustrated sound when he stopped. 

“Rey.” A reminder. 

“Lights— _shit_.” 

He leaned forward, cupping as much of her sex as he could. The tips of his fingers grazed just under her clit. “What about lights?”

“I—I deserve them.” How was she so wet so quickly? She could feel the dampness of the fabric, wondered how quickly it would spread. He was rubbing lightly, almost scratching, and it was maddeningly not enough. 

“You do. What else?”

“I don’t remember.” 

She grunted unhappily when he removed his fingers, but lost her breath again when he used them to tug down her pants in rough, jerking motions. His other hand refused to help: he kept it on her right breast, his arm stretched across her front, the pressure firm, keeping her close like he couldn’t trust her not to fall. 

He stopped when the fabric slid over the curve of her ass. He left her underwear alone and that was worse, it was _terrible_ because the protection of the cotton was no protection at all and she wanted and feared the return of his hand, knew that this time he’d touch her skin and she wasn’t prepared. She tensed in anticipation, eyes fixed intently on the water because she couldn’t watch, couldn’t know when he’d—

“Lick,” he ordered, and there were fingers at her lips. 

She gave in to an unknown instinct that told her to bite instead, happy when he sucked in air. _I’m wet enough_ , she wanted to say, but her mouth was full. 

She licked his fingers as he asked. Soothingly. An apology for the roughness of her teeth. 

What did he look like, as she did this? Were his eyes closed? Would she be able to see the cords in his neck? His breathing had changed—deeper than before. She could tell he’d bent his head; puffs of air tickled her nape, some of them laced with quiet groans.

And then his fingers were gone, sliding against the skin of her belly and down, down until she yelped, reaching back to clutch at his hair, his arm, anything she could find because _fuck_. 

He tapped her clit once, like a question. “You want me here?”

She squirmed, fruitlessly hoping to find relief for this growing, fierce ache. He played with her curls instead when she tried and fine, she’d say, “Yes.”

“You want me to play with your clit?”

“That,” she gasped, “was an unnecessary question. _Yes_.” 

He nipped at her ear, rougher than before. She felt the rumble of his growl. “Then finish what you started.”

 _Seriously?_ she wanted to wail, because it wouldn’t take much, just a good drag of his thumb, but she wracked her brain anyway, finally managing to huff, “A door— _uhn_.” He’d immediately touched her—tiny, light circles that echoed in her gut. “A door knob.”

There was a quick, violent kiss against her neck. “That’s right. Why?”

“Because I deserve to feel safe.” She deserved a medal too, a fucking _medal_ for that sentence, she could barely think—he’d trapped her clit between two fingers, squeezing lightly and releasing, an unpredictable heartbeat. She tugged harder on his hair. And then: “God _damn_ it, would you stop _stopping_ , I—”

“Blankets,” he spat, like he was done with this game, too. “Tell me you deserve the—”

“I deserve blankets,” she groaned, knowing her neighbors had heard, and how utterly strange her words must sound outside of this kitchen. _Are you being fucked or watching a self-help tape?_ one of them might say, but she didn’t care. Couldn’t, because Ben lessened the pressure as soon as she stopped talking and so she _growled_ , blurting, “Blankets. Clean blankets. And a fridge—I think I already—and food, good food. And—” She cast her eyes around for anything else, desperate for the friction to continue. “Soap that works. Nice, uh. _Fuck_. Nice lights and a soft place to sleep and a husband, a good husband who knows how to take care of—”

Her moan was sharp and echoing when he pulled out his hand. 

She turned her head, ready to spit a curse of fiery damnation, but he was turning her, lifting her up onto the counter, her pants fallen but still trapped around her knees, her underwear on but _ruined_ and it was all so abrupt that it took her a second to realize what she saw. 

Blood. Twin streaks of it leaking down his chin. Which meant that…

She gasped. 

His fangs were too obvious to hide. She’d only seen the hint of them before but now she was close and they were sharp, wicked things. Fat. Stained pink with his own blood. 

They retracted slightly when his tongue came out, slowly rolling over the broken flesh of his lip. The punctures healed and Rey wondered how many times he’d done that since he started touching her, if he was only doing it because she watched. 

“Rey.” 

It was hard to look away. His speech was altered, somewhat slurred by the addition of his fangs. He let her look, even curling up the edge of his lip so she could see the root of them, but then he said her name again. 

She looked up.

His pupils were blown. He stepped closer, and then he kissed her. 

She wasn’t prepared. She’d imagined this happening later, had planned to panic about his fangs ( _what if they cut me?_ ) and the blood ( _what if I taste it?_ ) and the experience itself ( _it’s been over a year, what if I’ve forgotten, where am I supposed to put my hands, do I tilt my head to the left or the right, what if I slurp?_ ) but there was no time: he was kissing her and she was kissing him back. 

He must have hidden his fangs; her tongue could find no trace of them, and panic was the most unwarranted thing in the world because this was _good_. She liked the way he pulled away to catch his breath, his pleased grunts when her little canines found the divots of his scars. He cussed when she sucked on his lip and she was hot again, reminded of her aching core when he pulled away, hands scrabbling at his belt. 

She watched, dazed as he did it. Felt confused when he stopped and snarled like an animal, abandoning the task and reaching for her instead. 

Her underwear was unceremoniously pushed aside. His eyes were immediately fixated—he clearly wanted to look—but she grabbed the back of his neck, dragging him in for a new kiss. Not because she was embarrassed but because she already missed it.

He swallowed her moan when he pushed his fingers inside—two of them, no preamble—and she was wet enough to take it, clenching when he started to pump.

“So good,” he said, his words hot against her cheek. “So good, Rey.” 

She held on, jaw locked, wild noises trapped in the back of her throat. 

“Do you like being told that you’re good?”

She rocked forward, burying her face in the slope of his shoulder. She nodded into it, too caught up in his relentless pace to actually speak.

“I’ll tell you whenever you want.” His free hand found her nape, and she wondered if his fangs were back. His words were off again. Rushed. “If you forget. I’ll remind you what you are. And what you deserve.” 

“Your thumb,” she finally begged, because the pressure was unbearable and her toes were flexing and it wasn’t sustainable, this feeling. Ben crooked his fingers and she bit at the fabric of his shirt, helplessly imagining the stretch of his cock. Would he bite her? Would she whimper when it happened? “Could you…?” 

He did, and this wasn’t a porn set: she didn’t have to worry about moaning loud or long enough—she didn’t have to angle her face to a camera or pretend to come again with better lighting. She could let herself drown in the bright waves of orgasm, panting into Ben’s neck, her hips rocking on the counter as she clutched at him, bruise-tight. 

He knew exactly when to stop—angling his fingers one last time for one last surprised squeak, then pulling them out, inspecting the gleam of her slick with eyes that looked a little stunned. 

Rey watched him, feeling oddly proud. Her underwear had snapped into place and it was a disgusting, awful sensation, but she was content enough to catch her breath, enjoying the sight of Ben doing the same. 

It was more than a minute before she trusted herself to speak. But she did have a question.

“Positive affirmations and orgasms. Historically, has that been a successful blend?” 

He finally lowered his hand. “What, like açaí and coconut milk?”

“Sure.” She slid off the counter, bent down to pull up her pants, and decided it was easier to keep them off. He threw out an arm for her to hold as she dance-hopped her way out of them. “Keep in mind that I am in no way complaining. It’s only that that was a first for—oh, shit.” Bending down to grab the hem put her face in the perfect place to notice her glaring oversight. “Your dick.” 

Ben looked down like he’d half-forgotten he had one in the first place. “Yeah,” he said, uninterested, like they were stuck in traffic and she’d pointed out something particularly banal. Like a farting cow. 

Rey reached, but he caught her hand, pulling her up. “No?” she asked. He shook his head, which made her say, “What kind of wife would I be if I—”

“Conditioning, right?” He smiled wryly. “You touch me now and I think I’d—” His eyes trailed meaningfully to her neck. 

“Oh.” She thought of earlier, and pointed to his belt, still half-undone. “Is that why…?”

“Yeah,” he said again, and now his smile was more of a grimace. “I’m not saying no. I’m just saying not now.”

Part of her wanted to point out that nothing truly stopped them. His no-drink policy was self-imposed. No one would ever know that they’d done it, and it wouldn’t sacrifice the shoot. Vampires didn’t _need_ to actually be hungry to bite. It might even be smart, to do it tonight. Of all the things they planned to do tomorrow it was the biggest unknown, the thing her mind circled back to most often. 

But they were his fangs. His choice. 

“So.” One of his hands found her own. He pulled her forward and she went, surprised by how easy it was to be close to him. She smiled; there was a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks. The mildest blush. “Would ‘horrible’ still be your top pick?”

She remembered. “Your adjective?” 

“Yes. Color me curious.” 

Rey twisted her lips to the side, pretending to deliberate. “Well, you said some very nice things to your wife. Did some nice things, too. On the other hand,” she lowered her voice threateningly, “I am still heavily traumatized by any and all references to the Object That Must Not Be Named.”

He blinked, confused. “Didn’t you already name all your dildos?” 

“Ah!” Rey swatted at his chest. Involuntary. “God, you’re right.” Her hands covered her face, making her mumble. “I can’t believe you know I named them. That is something that lives in your brain. I’ll never not know that you know it.” 

She could tell he used a knuckle to politely tap on her fingers. Like he was knocking at a door. “Get these down.” When she only lowered them long enough to glare, he sighed a patient sigh. “Would it make you feel better to know you’re not alone?”

“Ben, I’m not an idiot. If you own dildos, you have not named them. And even if you did, you’d probably give them the least embarrassing names in the world. Clifford,” she said hopelessly. “Reginald. Reginald Two.” 

“So in my second scene ever, I was twenty.” He held onto her wrists as he spoke, not forcing her to move, but encouraging movement all the same. “Almost as good as a virgin. They hired me for my fangs and my dick, but I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I show up and someone does my hair. Makeup. Then I’m led to a room to change.” He made a pleased sound when her hands slowly lowered. “There’s a robe and this strap of leather. And Rey, I’d never used a cock ring. I knew what it was. But I’d never put one on.” 

She already knew the answer, but: “Did you ask for help?”

“No. I took my best guess. By the time the fifth person knocked, my dick was an interesting shade of blue.”

Her lips threatened to curl. “What color was it when you finally left?”

“Purple, I think. The director asked if I’d recently pissed off a witch.” 

“Such is the cost of pride,” she said, not unkindly. “Did you actually film?”

“Yeah. I think I was billed as a half-blood karkadann.”

“What’s a karkadann?”

“Exactly.” 

She half-smiled. “All right,” she said, and took his hand. “So maybe ‘horrible’ fits you as well as that cock ring.” They were past due for a shower. She led him out of the kitchen, turning back once to say, “We’ll upgrade you to ‘tolerable.’ But ask me again in an hour. These things are subject to change.” 

\--

 **Poe** : _Ready for tmrw??!_  
**Poe** : _also…self-control? broken? how broken?_  
**Poe** : _update requested_  
**Rey** : _He may or may not have finger-banged me in the kitchen_  
**Poe** : _!!!!!!_  
**Poe** : _Rey_  
**Poe** : _Rey yes_  
**Poe** : _dialogue on point?!! banging on point??_  
**Rey** : _I think I chewed a hole in his shirt. he might bill you_  
**Rey** : _and the dialogue was…_  
**Poe** : _….???_  
**Rey** : _Choices were made_

She set her phone down when the doorknob rattled. 

“They didn’t have your fussy candy.” Ben had a strange habit of keeping the key in the lock until he’d fully opened the door. He removed it with a _shink_ and tossed Rey a plastic bag. “I bought you a beignet.” 

“On what planet is a beignet less fussy than licorice?” 

“You’re welcome,” he said, wholly unbothered, and walked to the couch. He pointed to her feet. “Up.” 

Rey lifted her legs long enough for Ben to slip underneath them. Logic said it should be strange to rest her socked feet in a vampire’s lap, but she did it without thought. What was heel-cradling in the aftermath of motivational kitchen sex? What was it after co-showering? 

Co-bathing, actually, because while Ben didn’t openly complain about her single shower head, he did shiver dramatically when she forced him out from under it. Being an accommodating host, Rey rolled her eyes and stepped out to find her drain plug. And half of a bath bomb. She was curious how he’d choose to whine. 

(Answer: with great aplomb.)

Naked bodies were naked bodies, and Rey had long since conquered the cultural taboo. No one worked for a porn studio without vastly expanding their visual library of nakedness. She may have choked on her coffee the first time she’d seen a merman’s dick ( _transparent_ and _bulbous_ made for a startling combination), but she’d quickly gained immunity. To what she saw, to what she heard, and to what she smelled. 

So she hadn’t done much thinking beyond _we need to take a shower_. Yes, they would be naked. They’d be fucking tomorrow; she’d come on his fingers; they were fake-married; what was the point in being coy? 

Ben’s cock was still shocking. 

_Holy god_ , her cunt whispered, in awe and fear. 

The color was absolutely predictable. The shape, too. Its size, however, was enough to make Rey gulp. Technically, she’d seen bigger (magical vaginas were the only vaginas equipped to survive a troll’s dick; even then, Rey had seen a witch say a prayer); she’d just never _fucked_ bigger. 

In the end, she was grateful. If she hadn’t accidentally penciled in Dick Exposure Therapy into their nighttime schedule, tomorrow’s de-robing might have elicited a humiliating squeak. 

He’d let her look, kindly not saying a word. 

Then they took their bath.

It was ridiculous in so many ways: she hadn’t accounted for the water displacement, so her floor was immediately awash with lavender bubbles. The tub was too small; they knocked limbs roughly every two seconds, even with creative sitting. She’d altogether forgotten how impractical baths were when it came to shampooing. And shaving of areas both intimate and neutral. 

They’d managed, though, and eventually decided to end their night on the couch. 

“Pick a movie,” Ben had said. “My requirement is small and it’s this: no loincloths.” 

He was the first to leave, citing his need for a walk. Fresh air before spending the night indoors. Did she need anything from the store?

He probably needed to clear his nose. Or rein in his hunger. Because if she’d looked at him, he’d looked at her, too. She’d heard him counting out a breathing pattern when she washed the inside of her thigh. His hand had gone rigid on the tub lip more than once. A break was clearly warranted.

As soon as he left, Rey reviewed the facts:

1\. Her co-star was not an asshole—just a reformed one  
2\. Everything about him was enormous  
3\. He’d given her an orgasm, and  
4\. He’d yet to have one of his own

It was hard to forget the last truth with her heels two centimeters from his ballsack. 

But he’d said what he’d said. He knew his own body, and it didn’t matter that she was hungry to touch him—if he wasn’t ready, she would wait. Better to watch Sir Ian McKellen smoke pipeweed with Bilbo than waste time pondering. She’d touch him eventually. That’s what mattered.

She’d very lightly cut her leg whilst shaving. There was a faint, already-healing line halfway between her crotch and her left knee. She prodded the mild sting of it as Ben talked about Peter Jackson. 

“…influenced by Harryhausen, but I’d argue the bigger factor was—okay. I need a favor.”

“Hm?” God, it _itched_ , too. 

“Two favors, actually. One: could you pause with the scratching? It’s…a lot.” 

Hand frozen, Rey turned her head expecting to see a smile. Instead he looked serious. Mildly uncomfortable. The words of the movie faded away when she carefully asked, “And the second favor?”

He closed his eyes, like he was entertaining any and all options other than the one he was forced to pick. Then he sighed. “I’m hungry.”

She frowned. “Are you asking me to make you a plate?” Because surely he didn’t mean _that_ hunger. Not when he’d bragged about loving starvation. He might have been tempted earlier, but he wasn’t close to breaking. It made sense when they’d been in the kitchen with her pussy on display; it made less sense on the couch.

Only he shook his head, his eyes drifting back to her thigh. “This isn’t normal. I don’t know what’s—” He cut himself off, cutting a hand through the air. “It doesn’t matter. I have to get this under control. I have to know my limits or tomorrow is going to be a shitshow. I need you to test me.” 

Rey blinked. “Test you how?”

He gestured vaguely at his chest. “Just…come here. Let me smell you.”

Part of her balked at that— _I think it’d break my heart if you winced_ —but she knew what he was really asking. It wasn’t about her smell; it was about his hunger. 

She drew up her knees, silently rolling forward so she could crawl the short distance to his lap. Watching his face for permission, she swung a leg until she straddled him, her hands on the couch by his shoulders. 

Hesitantly, she asked, “This good?”

“Yeah. I’m going to—” His hands rested on her waist, his fingers long enough that they almost met in the middle of her back. He leaned forward, rubbing his nose against her neck. “This,” he breathed, and he sounded like a man who’d found something believed to be lost. 

Rey swallowed, not ashamed but very aware that she’d soon be wet. 

The light touch of his nose was almost immediately replaced with the drag of his lips. “You’re going to taste…” 

She waited for him to finish, but he didn’t seem interested in words. When she felt the wetness of his tongue, she shivered, and wondered what would happen next. She tried to keep her voice light. “Do you need me to do anything in particular?” 

His mouth stopped moving, and she heard the tiniest groan of frustration when he broke contact. “Talk to me. Let me do this. If I tap…” He demonstrated, lightly strumming against her spine. “Then pull away and give me a second. But don’t leave. It’ll—I’ll want to chase you.” 

Well, shit. 

Something inside her must be broken. Because she _almost_ asked, “Is that a promise?” 

“Okay,” she said instead, and felt proud for not shuddering when he immediately relatched—not sucking, but tonguing her skin. Like he could somehow find his way to the blood beneath. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. Or what to say. “I—one day I’d like to travel.”

He hummed once. Acknowledgement. 

“Poe says I’d really like the wine in France, but recent information has changed my opinion.”

He’d found her artery. His mouth stretched wider, and she couldn’t help it: her heart started a mild gallop. Ben immediately knew it: his hands squeezed her hips, bunching the fabric. 

_Keep going,_ she told herself. 

“I think I’d like New Zealand. Not just because of…” Ben licked his way across her throat; she arched it back, accommodating. Her hands went to his hair, carding through. “Because of hobbits. I watched a documentary about this really pretty place. In a park. I think I’d—”

He tapped. 

Obediently, Rey straightened, not knowing if he’d release her until he did. 

His eyes were tightly closed—his mouth too, but his jaw rolled and rolled. Desperate, like it was losing a battle. His breathing had quickened. 

She watched him, not knowing if it was right to like what she saw. 

_His fangs are there_ , she thought, and it made her clench on nothing. _They’re right there; they have to be out. He’s trying to hide them. Because he wants to bite me and I’d let him. He could. I think I’d like it. I think I’d let him take—_

With a groan of defeat, his hand snapped up to the back of her neck, pushing her forward, and she could _feel_ it, the shape of his fangs. Not directly against her skin but the bulge of them through the flesh of his lips. He kept them pressed against her jumping pulse. Not moving, this time. Each of his exhales hid a small, breathless whine. 

“But I hear the flight is—it’s—”

She shouldn’t do it, she _shouldn’t_ , but she spread her knees, rocking experimentally, angling downward, hoping to feel—

Fuck.

His moan sounded close to a sob. One hand grabbed a fistful of her hair. 

He was hard and huge and how was she supposed to wait until tomorrow? Every rock teased out new wetness, made her wonder if he was leaking too—how he’d taste on her tongue…

Tapping. Wild tapping. 

“Ben,” she breathed, because his neck was corded and he was bleeding again, his whole chin slick with it, a dark, burgundy color that reflected back the light of the screen. And she could tell he wanted to end it, that he was ready to call the whole thing off and she wasn’t ready, she had to ask, at least, if he’d let her—

He sucked in a breath when she gripped him. Squeezing once. A question. 

“Can I taste you?” she asked, and his eyes opened, slightly panicked. 

“I don’t—” His words sounded like they’d been pushed past glass. Like they were sliced, deeply wounded. “You can touch me, but not your—not your mouth.” 

She scrambled off his lap and onto the floor.

He tensed—the beginning of his promise to chase her—but immediately calmed when her hands gripped his knees. Relief flooded his face. It had helped, then. The distance. Some of the black in his eyes retreated. 

He still brought his forearm to his lips when she reached for his zipper. 

She drew him out, wasting no time. Spit pooled in her mouth, but she ignored it—licking her hand and swallowing the rest, pumping him with two hands, feeling gloriously mad with power when his hips began to rock. 

His brow was furrowed. He’d hidden his teeth, but she could still see the clench of his jaw when she thumbed at his cockhead, spreading what he leaked. 

“Have you imagined tomorrow?” She spoke without her own permission, the words tumbling out in a rush. “How it will go? Because I have.” And maybe that—maybe that was a nod, a grunt of affirmation. His eyes fluttered when worked him faster, her hand almost pale against the ruddy color of his skin. “I’ve thought about your cock. How it will feel when you fuck me.” A drip of red fell down to his shirt. “And your mouth. If you’ll lick my cunt the same way you licked my mouth. I’ve thought about where you’ll bite me, if I’ll scream when you finally—”

Back almost bowing, he came with a muffled shout. 

\--

It was late, and there wasn’t a point in sleeping separately. _This isn’t professional_ , part of her warned, when he followed her into her bedroom, but the thought made her snort. Professionalism was a ship long since sailed. It hadn’t seen port in a lifetime. 

They’d film tomorrow—later today, in truth—and that would be that. He’d leave and drive back home to the life he’d put on hold for the shoot. She’d go to school. Poe would do something stupid and she’d fix the problem and probably quit and probably show up at his house the next day regardless. She’d drive people places and grocery shop and it would be fine. 

She’d think of him whenever she opened her door and it would be fine. 

It'd be really fine.

For now she was tired. Content. She climbed into bed next to Ben's warm heat and closed her eyes, wondering if she'd dream of red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe [Jen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenfysNest/pseuds/JenfysNest) a LOT a lot. I think I whined about this chapter for a solid five days straight. XD She was patient and supportive and just all around wonderful, and I'm really grateful. <3
> 
> This is my last chapter for January. I'm super behind on my charity fic ([information about donating to receive a copy of the anthology here!)](https://reylocharityanthology.tumblr.com/), and that needs to be finished before I pick up 9 Pints. Eek! But I promise I'll come back. 
> 
> Y'all have been so kind. <3


	9. Chapter 9

“…what I did with the wax strips?”

Rey looked up from her position on the floor. The hem of Poe’s pants were caked in a pungent mud; oddly, his boots looked pristine. She resisted the urge to scuff the leather. “You used them. Well, the werewolf used them.”

She heard his frown. “Which werewolf?”

“The hairy one? I don’t remember his name. It sounded like a cough.” 

“Why would I give my wax strips to a werewolf?”

“If I recall correctly, you said, ‘What’s the point in stargazing on a cloudy night?’ You were very into metaphors at the time. Terrible ones.”

“I wanted him to trim his bush?”

“No, you wanted him to _wax_ his bush.”

“But I love body hair.”

“Not on him, you didn’t. In your defense, it was a slash and burn agriculture situation.” The aftermath still haunted her thoughts from time to time. Throwing away the trash liner had felt bizarrely wasteful; surely that much of _anything_ was destined to serve a greater purpose. “Things needed to be reset. For the good of the world.”

“Patrice!” Poe barked his name like he’d materialized in the room. “Holy god, what a bastard. I miss his shoulders. Whatever happened to him?” 

“Oh, he’s doing well. Took up hawking, got his associate’s in radiological therapy. He’s building a houseboat. Still likes a good Bordeaux.”

Almost a question: “You’re joking.” 

“I am.”

“I thought so.” After a wistful sigh, he seemed to realize something was amiss. “You’re on the floor. Why are you on the floor?”

“Because there is pixie cum on this floor. If you don’t get it out, it stains.” She imagined the sparkle as an regiment of invading soldiers. Her rag was a canon. Her muscle was the gunpowder within. Victory would be achieved at any cost. “I take it the orgy went well?”

“It was madness.” His eyes sparkled radiant joy when she paused to check. “I can’t feel my left nipple. And while I appreciate your dedication to my floor’s wellbeing, aren’t you supposed to be polishing something else?”

“Like silver?” she asked dryly. Her eye caught on the rug. With a feeling of certain dread, she shuffled closer to it, knees squeaking on the tile. 

“I was thinking something more organic. Like a penis. There’s a perfectly good one attached to a vampire in the other room.”

“No one polishes dicks in the 21st century,” she mumbled, frowning when she lifted up the corner of the rug with the very tips of her fingers. Unsurprisingly, there was a small ocean of oil slick hiding beneath. She scoffed in disgust. “Did you even try to clean this?”

“A noble attempt was made,” he said dismissively, “and don’t change the subject. Did something happen between the two of you? I saw him pinch your ass at breakfast. You doused his eggs in hot sauce. It was the most wholesome thing I’ve ever seen.” 

Jesus, it was caked. There were _layers_. “Nothing happened.”

A pause. “Does your costume not fit?”

“It fits fine.” 

“You’re not wearing it.”

“Have you ever tried to scrub tile in a pencil skirt?” 

“Yes, actually. Are you nervous?” 

“I—” Rey made it a habit not to openly lie; she didn’t always succeed, but in this case, deflection was much more appealing than the truth. “Would you fetch me more bleach?”

“Rey.”

“This needs to soak.”

“It can soak later. Is it his dick?” When her movement slowed, he sounded more confident. “It’s his vampire dick. His…” He stooped a little, trying to catch her eye. Gauging her reaction like a cop from a made-for-TV drama. “His enormous vampire dick? No. His vampire fangs. His dick or his fangs. Equally vampiric.”

The rag made an unpleasantly wet _slap_ against the floor. Rey sat back on her heels, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It’s not embarrassing to be nervous,” she muttered. 

“Are you telling me or asking me?”

“Telling you. I don’t—well, I think it’s natural. Embarrassment.”

“Of course.”

“I’m very aware that he has a big dick. I saw it. My cunt is sufficiently fearful. Also cautiously optimistic.”

Slower, and far more concerned: “Right.” 

“And the fang thing, that’ll be fine. I’ve been thinking about it. If he tickles me and I send my knee through his skull, he has no one to blame but himself. If it doesn’t tickle, then it’ll either feel amazing or okay or terrible. Regardless, I’ll survive.”

An amused snort. “It’s not going to feel terrible.”

“I shaved. I double-checked, to be sure.”

“Congratulations?”

“My elliptical resistance is at an impressively high setting. The lizardman at the gym who’s always running? He gave me a _not bad_ face the other day. At least,” she released her nose, frowning, “I think that’s what he meant. It’s hard to read lizards. Not a lot of—” her fingers made a whirling motion at her face. “You know?” 

“Not exactly.”

“I’m not worried about my endurance, is my point. I’m pretty confident I can fuck Ben for hours.” 

“Something I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear. And hold up.” He raised a hand. “Before you tell me how you’re amazingly confident in your blowjob technique—”

“I _am_.”

“—you need to explain what’s going on. You know it’s fine to be embarrassed. You also know it’s fine to be nervous. It’s natural, like you said. But I’m standing here and I’m thinking about the last time we filmed. You were descaling the Keurig, remember?” Sourly, she did. She’d spent hours cleaning it; Poe broke it the very next day. “Had an exam at noon. I asked if you could squeeze in a scene before you left. You started a load of laundry, begged the kappa firefighter for a sound fuck, _got_ fucked, and folded the dried sheets before you left humming through the front door.” His smile reminded Rey of parents who proudly showcased their child’s macaroni art on the fridge. “So you can imagine why this—” he nudged the discarded rag with his boot, “confuses me.”

Her eyes went to the ceiling. She sighed, both to stall and because she realized there was a sparkly smear on the molding. Fucking pixies. 

“I don’t know what happens next,” she admitted, slightly mulish. 

After a breath’s worth of hesitation, Poe joined her on the floor. He leaned against the sink’s cabinet, and Rey decided not to tell him that he was sitting on the cum rag. “You want to revisit the script?”

She almost laughed. The script was hardly a script; it was a bulleted list that Rose had taped to the tripod. “No. I know what we’re doing. But it’s like…” She thought of how she felt when she walked by the paper, how seeing the words _Ben oral, bed, Rey orgasm (cuffs? pinned?)_ sent a cramping wave of nausea to her gut. “Like all those times before, I was swimming in a pool. I could see the bottom. There were neon innertubes and Mai Tais. Today?” She pointed a finger at the door. “That’s the ocean.” 

“You want me to call it off?” he asked, and that. That was why she worked for Poe. Because vampires were notoriously difficult to hire and notoriously popular with viewers and he still made it seem like cancelling was a viable option. Like he’d do it with a smile. 

She patted his hand once. Thankful. “No, because you know the craziest thing?”

“You _want_ to fuck him.” He didn’t even pause to hear her confirm it. “I can tell you like him.”

“I do,” she admitted, “although that’s largely irrelevant. He’s leaving this afternoon. Evening. Whenever.” She’d been repeating that to herself all morning. Especially when she felt tempted to ask for his number. He was here to film and it was only an accident of Poe’s inept design that she’d spent so much time with him. They’d had fun, yes, but she was under no illusion that that fun would extend beyond today. 

He probably fixed everyone’s doorknobs. 

“People who leave can come back,” Poe pointed out—careful, like to say the words too loudly would rob them of their truth. 

Her heart gave one hopeful thump before she battled it back into submission. “Fair,” she made herself say, “but that doesn’t help me go out there and fuck him.”

“What would?”

She tossed her hands in the air so they could fall back in her lap. “I don’t know. I keep visualizing it. I get as far as my hand on his pants and then everything just fades to an unhelpful black.”

He shifted on the floor, digesting, then made a thoughtful noise. “The first time I fucked a succubus, I didn’t leave the car for a full five minutes. Pulled up to her house, couldn’t take my hands off the wheel.”

This sounded familiar. “Cassandra? Didn’t you end up getting engaged?”

“Momentarily. But my point is that I let myself imagine the very worst scenarios. If she couldn’t stop. If _I_ couldn’t stop. If we ran out of lube—”

“The horror,” Rey said dryly.

“—and then I realized Finn knew where I was. That most of the bullshit the media spits about succubae is a lie and that I had half a bottle of Liquid Silk in my backpack. So I opened the door, walked up her driveway, and had the best week of my life. I say this,” he paused, waiting until Rey looked him in the eye, “because I have a feeling you’ve spent the last twenty minutes catastrophizing. Nothing’s going to happen to you.” 

“I know that,” she said, somewhat indignant. “Ben wouldn’t…I’m not worried he’s going to _hurt_ me.”

“Good. That’s not who he is.” 

“I think I’m worried about fucking it up.” Having said it out loud, she felt slightly ridiculous. How many times had she coached recalcitrantly shy actors into overcoming their fears? At the end of the day, porn was just sex. Performative sex. If something didn’t work, they shot it again. Or edited it out. “And I _know_ I shouldn’t worry. The world has bigger concerns.”

“I saw a documentary about dying penguins, last week,” Poe offered. “Bummed me the fuck out.” 

“Dying penguins, sure. Perfect example. So it’s stupid, but I’m nervous. I don’t even have a specific reason.”

“Vaginal tearing?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“A nymph got a splinter in her foot, last week. I think she bled for a solid two seconds.” 

“Poe.”

“Kicking the tripod? Drooling? There’s always the off chance you could sneeze in his mouth. Mucus is not a fun fluid.”

“I get it, okay? I need to just…do it.”

“Correct.”

“I need to just go out there and fuck him.” 

“We did pencil you in.” 

She sighed, rubbing at a nonexistent mark on her palm. Her nails looked nice. “Give me two minutes.”

“Two minutes,” he repeated, making it sound less like an order and more like the start of a jubilant countdown. He stood up, then frowned at the rag. “I’m taking this,” he said, picking it up, “and I’m not giving it back. Meet us on set.” 

And then he was gone. 

There was nothing for it. She dressed in a haze—pulling up the skirt, zipping, admiring her ass in the mirror. She tucked in her blouse. Her hair was already styled, but she grabbed the long pin and jabbed until it was up and suitably, sexily messy. Makeup was inspected. There was a last dutiful check for stray price tags (she found one on her bra—$247 and she _wheezed_ , adding it to the long list of Things to Yell at Poe About) before her hand was on the doorknob. 

The fucking doorknob. 

It was the opposite of anything special. Fake crystal, slightly gaudy. The sort of thing no one noticed. 

Except for the Rey of this moment, who suddenly and acutely realized why she was so leery of turning it. 

Ben was waiting. Listening to music, maybe, or lifting an obnoxiously heavy weight like some of the other actors did, bulking muscles for the camera. Because they were going to be filmed. Because this was a porn studio, and as soon as Rey joined him they’d get down to the business of fucking. Rose was a devil for the details: nothing was shot in a single take. Lighting would be adjusted. Someone’s leg would inevitably need to be crooked higher or lower and Rey could almost guarantee an assistant would run over mid-thrust with a can of hairspray. 

It was going to be everything she expected and nothing she wanted. 

Somewhere along the line, she’d actually, truly started to look forward to this. She hadn’t been lying to Ben: she _had_ imagined him biting. She _had_ wondered if she’d scream. Seeing his hands wrapped around one of her mugs made her guess how they’d feel wrapped around her wrists, her waist. Seeing his cock made her _drool_. 

And it wasn’t that she wouldn’t have the answers to her questions. He’d bite her. He’d hold her. She’d bite and hold him back. But there was a difference between fucking in a bedroom and fucking on set. 

Only one of them was real. 

She couldn’t trust anything that happened. Every sigh, every moan—all of it was going to be intentional. Ben would say what he’d say and maybe it would curl her toes, maybe it wouldn’t. But no matter what he said, he wouldn’t be talking to _her_. He’d be talking to the camera. Kissing for the camera. Fucking for the camera. And that…

That made her sigh. 

She allowed herself a brief moment of wistfulness, then packed up her regret and buried it deep. Today was only a day. It would end as all things did, and if it wasn’t what she knew she wanted, it was as close as she was going to get. 

\--

They’d shared countless words since she’d driven him home. She knew Ben’s opinion on bologna (unpalatable, bordering on offensive), street racing (he’d once had a series of reoccurring nightmares about Paul Walker), and seafood paella (sublime). He’d talked to her in the kitchen. They’d argued in the car. She had a tendency to trade one topic for another only to circle back to her original point and it didn’t seem to faze him. He kept up. 

All of that, and she still had no idea what to say when she saw him. 

His clothes were far different from hers. Relaxed. The low-slung jeans looked soft, and his t-shirt was black and obscenely tight. If she cared to, Rey could probably trace the outline of each individual ab. Which made her frown. 

“Abdominal muscles,” she said out loud, and Ben’s water bottle froze at his lips. “Are there six of them? Eight? Should I be thinking about them in the plural?”

There was a delayed swallow. To his credit, he didn’t ask her to repeat herself. “Just two.”

“Two?” Another quick inspection filled her with disbelief. She could count…well, there were more than _two_. 

With more self-consciousness than she’d expect from a porn star, Ben gestured at his own stomach. He poked at the topmost ridge and flicked his fingers in a downward motion. “One.” He did it again on the other side. “Two.”

Rey stared mistrustfully, but supposed he’d know better than most. When he wasn’t proselytizing about the glory of starvation, he must spend an unreasonable amount of time at the gym. A body like that didn’t happen on accident. Not if the universe had a sense of justice. 

The sound of a minor crash turned their heads. 

“Sorry!” a stranger squeaked, frantically scooping up fallen books. He must have been part orc: his skin was a mossy green, and his underbite added a minor lisp to his continued apologies. As soon as he’d finished his task, he darted off, calling for Rose. 

Rey wandered closer to the bookshelf, curious. She wondered who’d given the order to customize the set. That was usually one of her jobs. 

“So, what kind of people are we?” Ben joined her, leaning down to inspect the titles. 

She pulled a book out halfway. “‘A Field Guide to American Houses.’ So we either don’t read at all, or we’re pretentious.” 

“That’s awfully judgmental coming from someone who refuses to invest in a bath mat.”

“Not having a bath mat is the opposite of pretentious. That’s anti-pretentious.”

“Suit yourself.” He batted her hand out of the way so he could take the book out altogether. The pages made a _shush, shush_ sound as he leafed through them. “Maybe you’re an architect,” he mused. “Could put a fun spin on the dirty talk. I could threaten to—” he squinted at a particular line, “clean your pedimented dormers.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her lip. “I’m not sure the world is ready.”

“No? What if, instead of moaning, you expounded on the virtues of the Richardsonian Romanesque style? Educational porn. We’ll invent a whole new genre.” He smiled when she pinched his side. It was stupidly hard to manage it; there wasn’t any fat. “But I won’t insist.” 

She took the book from him, sliding it back where it belonged. “Lots of poetry,” she remarked. “You think that’s you or me?”

“Me,” he said instantly. “It’s how I wooed you.” 

“I was wooed?”

“Professionally. I don’t do things by halves.” 

She let herself slide into someone else’s life. It was like slipping on a coat—warm and protective, chasing away the chill of her nervousness. She wasn’t Rey, dog-walker and cleaner of cummy floors; she was Rey, a pretentious architect with a husband who wooed her with poetry. Who’d missed her and needed to be fed. 

“What was your poison of choice?” she asked, nodding at the shelves. “Sonnets?”

“Nothing overly romantic,” he said, the words coming out slow, and how did she ever think he was a terrible actor? He didn’t sound like he was making it up; he sounded like he was turning over real memories in his mind, holding them up to the light to find their truth. “You’ve always been too practical for flowery sentiment. They were normal poems.”

“What’s a normal poem?” She didn’t know why her voice quieted, but it did. 

He trailed a hand over the spines, either looking for inspiration or buying time to think. Finally, he turned to her and said, “You like Billy Collins. Especially the one about the dog. I’ve read it to you a million times.” 

“I do like dogs,” she admitted, wondering if it meant anything that his eyes dipped down to her neck. She resisted the urge to touch there, settling for a quick stretch of her fingers instead. 

“I tried to take you to a reading in Paris,” he said, after a moment. “There’s a picture of it on the nightstand.” 

She side-stepped to check, and sure enough: someone had already magicked their shitty green screen shots into a frame. It couldn’t have been Finn. He was too meticulous to plaster brightly-lit faces on what was obviously the Eiffel Tower at night. Not that realism really mattered. She was surprised it existed at all; people watched porn to get off, not to analyze its believability. 

“We look happy,” she said. Oddly, they did. Ben’s hand was on her waist. She looked a bit piggish with her nose scrunched, but Ben had been whispering a filthy joke about a witch and her broomstick. His eyes were on her, not the camera, and if he wasn’t smiling, he at least seemed content. 

“Of course we’re happy. You’d just upgraded us to a suite.”

“I did?”

“Mhm.” His agreement was a deep rumble and a siren song both: Rey found herself stepping closer and not thinking it strange when his arm slung around her shoulders. “Big promotion.” 

“Shouldn’t I be sad, though? You said you _tried_ to take me to a reading.”

“We missed it.” 

“Jetlag?”

“Sex.”

She rotated as much as he would let her, then cocked her head. “Oh?”

“Copious amounts.” His eyes were back on her neck again. “Very creative positions.”

The bed behind him suddenly occupied a much larger space. _You’re going to fuck there,_ her brain whispered needlessly. _That’s where he’s going to lay you down and fuck you. Drink from you. You’ll feel his dick, then his fangs. That’s what he’s thinking about. That’s why he’s watching your pulse. He’s imagining everything about the way it will go: how you’ll pant, the way you’ll thrash, the taste of your bl—”_

“Ready, guys?” 

She blinked again and realized that Rose was there, smiling as she absentmindedly toggled the camera’s settings. The orc was back—today’s assistant, clearly—and rattling off a list of panicky concerns. Rose hummed reassuringly when his voice climbed too high. 

Rey’s eyes crawled back to the camera. 

“You don’t worry about them.” Ben’s palm went to her cheek, gently turning her head until Rose’s hands and the lens and the wormy tangle of cords were replaced by his face. “All right? We’re going to do what we do, and you’re going to forget about the cameras. You’re going to trust me.”

She wanted to tell him that forgetting the cameras was impossible, if not downright unprofessional. You had to _remember_ them. Losing yourself, pretending anything about the whole experience was real—that was only a recipe for disappointment. Also, chafing. 

But his hand was warm and his eyes held no hint of humor. He looked like he was following his own advice; she felt like the only person in the room. His gaze never wavered—not even to the jumping vein in her neck. 

She stole one last look at the bed. “No cameras,” she agreed, albeit hesitantly. It was easier to say, “And I do trust you.”

Ben looked like he wanted to say something else, but Rose raised her voice again. “Rey? Let Scott fix your skirt. There’s something sparkly on the hem. Ben? I need you by the window. I _think_ I adjusted the height correctly,” she kicked one of the tripod’s legs, “but I want to be sure. Then we can start. You good to go?”

Scott the orc was standing by the door, almost quivering with nervousness. There was a spray bottle in one hand and a rag that visibly shook in the other. Idly, Rey wondered if he’d faint when Ben removed her bra. 

Heeding Rose’s order, Rey turned only to be immediately snatched back. 

Ben’s grip was a firm, unbreakable thing. Almost startling. For the briefest moment, she saw the tightening of his lips—a man summoning the courage to conquer a fear—and then his nose was buried in her shoulder. 

Rey blinked at the wall—not remotely scared, but unsure. What was he…?

Breaths. She heard deep, audible breaths. Without knowing how, Rey knew he was smelling her blood. 

_I’m sorry_ , she almost said, because Amarantine’s words were never far from her mind, but there wasn’t gagging. He wasn’t choking on the stench of a meal gone rotten. He was _savoring_ , and he’d smelled her before—on the couch, most notably—but this was…this was different. 

This wasn’t a man smelling a rose. This wasn’t casual. It felt like something that shouldn’t be witnessed, something so firmly vampiric that she suddenly realized how much he’d kept hidden. All of the small glimpses she’d seen—his fangs, the bloody trail down his chin, the loss of control in her chair—were just that: glimpses. Brief, fleeting flashes of a dragon’s tail. Now she was standing on his hoard of gold. Breathing his smoke. Admiring the shine of his scales. 

He’d done vampiric _things_ before, but Rey had never truly felt like she shared an apartment with a vampire. 

A vampire was holding her now. 

It wasn’t anything she could point to—he was still _Ben_ , despite it all—but an ancient, primordial part of her being was startled into wakefulness. The part of her that remembered cave fire and spears and what it meant to hunt and be hunted. 

He pulled back, reluctance etched in every visible part of his body. 

_Don’t move,_ her instinct cried. _Do nothing, say nothing._

But she couldn’t stop a small gasp. “Ben. Your _eyes._ ”

Black—darker than the devil’s own heart—had encroached into the brown. Red ( _blood_ red, she thought wildly) fought white for territory and was winning. Her words incited a small retreat, but the overall effect was chilling. 

“Trust,” he said. A reminder of her earlier agreement. 

His voice was the same, and that helped. “Trust,” she said back slowly, meaning it. Then, stupidly: “I’m going to go…over there.” She used Scott’s faint anxiety sounds in order to triangulate the direction of her blind point. “I have cum on my skirt. Go be tall by the window.” 

He twitched as soon as she took a step. She liked it. 

“I was wondering when you were going to get around to that.” The bemusement in Rose’s voice was a distraction—a welcome or unwelcome one, Rey couldn’t decide. “Now listen to your wife. Come here and be a vampire in the fake sun.”

Slowly enough to make it clear that he did it because he wanted to and not because he was told to, Ben walked across the room. 

Rose immediately began to chatter ( _“To the best of your recollection, do you hunch much, when people blow you?”_ ), which gave Rey’s muscles the nudge they needed. She turned, almost forgetting why, and saw a trembling orc. 

“Oh god,” Scott whimpered, though he very valiantly reached for her skirt. “This is going to be a _day_.”

Rey didn’t disagree. 

\--

Rey wanted to thank whoever it was that bought the robe she wore, only belatedly realizing she needed to thank herself. _Good job, me_ , she praised, petting the plush cotton. _Top-notch taste. Excellent foresight. This is a thoroughly pleasant experience._

Flying in the face of her expectations, there had yet to be a catastrophe. There was always something gut-churning about the first line, the first touch, but they were thirty minutes into the shoot and apart from Scott’s meditative breathing, everything was going according to plan.

Instead of brooding near a fake window, Ben kicked off the scene by brooding _and_ masturbating near a fake window. It hadn’t been in the script, but he’d almost immediately taken a massive paw to the bulge in his jeans, rubbing as if to relieve an ache, and Rose had gasped, “Fantastic idea, I love it, keep going.”

Nodding distractedly, he’d looked to Scott. “Get me a picture.”

A wary pause. “Of something in particular?”

“I’ve always been a fan of Impressionism,” he said dryly. When Scott lurched into motion, he snapped, “Of _her_. Jesus christ.” 

Picture speedily procured, Ben rolled his neck and got to work. 

He pretended to take a call—the words were meaningless and easily forgettable, existing only to set up the scene. No, Kira wasn’t home yet. Yes, he was waiting. No, she was taking a taxi. A thousand apologies, but they couldn’t make it to dinner; she’d promised to feed him at home. 

He paced as he talked but stopped at the window, picking up the new picture frame and swiping a gentle thumb over the glass. The phone was sandwiched between his ear and his shoulder, freeing up a hand to squeeze at his hardening dick. His answers became shorter. Terser. Squeezing was replaced by stroking, his eyes closed, and there was only a clipped _goodbye_ before the phone fell to the floor. 

He teased himself. His fingers only occasionally brushed at his zipper, but it was clear what he wanted to do. “Save it,” he spat, a fierce self-order, and it was obscene the way Rey could _see_ how he swelled under his jeans. More with each pass of his hand. 

His knuckles were white on the frame. “I miss you,” he grunted, almost shyly. 

Rey swallowed. He wasn’t thinking of _her_ , of course, but that was her face in the frame. 

He sold it: tenderness and aching ferocity. The camera recorded a husband desperate for his wife, a man who so badly wanted to wait but couldn’t—not when he remembered her taste, not when he’d waited so long. Been patient. And she was coming home, yes, but he didn’t know when and she wouldn’t begrudge him this. She knew how hot he burned. 

No one could deny he was good at his job. 

Groaning like he was enduring a terrible trial, Ben finally gave in: his button was undone, his pants were unzipped, and he pulled out his cock—pumping slowly, almost cruelly firm. 

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you, when you’re here?” he asked the frame. It trembled slightly in his grip. “You gave me too much time to think.”

He spun an elaborate fantasy. How he wanted to fuck her. Where he wanted to fuck her. Somewhere around _drink from your pretty tits_ his fangs descended—not fully, not consistently, but a preview that Rose was quick to capture. 

“Want you home,” was an unmissable cue. 

There was a short break for camera relocation—the viewers would see Rey before Ben ever did—and it was easier than Rey expected to confidently walk across the carpeted floor, set down an empty briefcase, smile indulgently at her horny househusband, and join him at the window. 

She let her hands slide around his stomach. _Two abs_ , she nearly scoffed, but managed to say, “Miss me?” 

Kissing. Almost explosive kissing. Ben had her ass on a very conveniently placed table before she’d finished her question, his tongue seeking hers, his hands cradling her jaw, and it was everything and nothing like their kissing in the kitchen. This was more aggressive. Needful. There was an edge to his biting that she didn’t remember: his nips never breaking the skin but wholeheartedly teasing the promise of it. 

Rose stopped them from time to time and it was expected, her _Move your hand, Ben, you’re blocking her face_ and _Rey, can you look to the ceiling? Show him your neck_. 

It was good, having breaks. That levity. This would be too dangerous, otherwise. Too easy to forget that this was an act. The set was fantastically done (Rey would have to wait to be sure, but those sheets were _not_ the ones she’d found on the clearance rack), but it was a set. That was a camera and yes, Ben might have broken her blouse’s buttons and yes, his fingers gripped tight enough to bruise, but he’d missed his wife. He wanted the viewers to believe it. 

_Passionate_ , Poe had said, and they were doing their best to deliver on that promise. 

By the time Scott tripped over a wire and fell into frame, Rose was too happy with their progress to scold. “Five minutes,” she’d said, and Rey had found her robe.

She wasn’t completely naked. Ben had ruined her blouse, but her bra was still intact. Her thong was hardly more than a wet scrap of fabric, the lace already stretched from Ben’s insistent tugging. They’d gotten a few up-the-skirt shots as he’d teased her slit, her ass balanced on the edge of the table. 

(Had he really licked his fingers, she thought, or was that only a fevered desire?)

Water was procured. Rey borrowed a mirror, irrationally proud to see the little pink marks blooming on her neck. Ben paced. Rose made very comforting sounds as Scott fanned his face. 

A gentle, easy road though it had been, they were headed toward something more complicated. Rey wasn’t a fool: Ben was doing an admirable job of keeping himself under control, but the truth was obvious. He was hungry. 

It was like he’d finally given himself permission. He’d stared at her neck before—he’d been stealing glimpses since they’d first met—but like so many other things, today was different. _I want to bite her_ had so clearly become _I need to bite her_ which was currently skirting the edge of _I’m going to bite her right this fucking second_. 

He wasn’t talking much. He followed Rose’s directions, but he didn’t like them. Rey had very quickly learned that in whatever headspace he occupied, it wasn’t a wise idea to leave his sight. 

“You don’t need my permission,” he’d gritted, once she’d returned from fetching a water bottle, “but if you’re going to…” he gestured at the door. “Warn me first.” 

She’d seen the crushed plastic of his own bottle and understood. 

She didn’t feel panicked. He’d never hurt her, and this was normal, right? This intensity? Porn stars had all sorts of quirks—especially the supernatural ones. Werewolves unabashedly took comfort in anything that squeaked. 

(Although one never, under any circumstances, referred to them as squeaky toys. They were ‘objects that produced a particular sound of interest,’ and if they happened to be found at the pet store, that was a happy accident. Nothing more.) 

Rey didn’t need to check the bulleted list to know what happened next. 

Oral. His or hers and eventually both. 

It wasn’t a crime to be turned on—if there was ever a place _not_ to begrudge wet panties, a porn set was the place—but she did wonder if her cunt was a bit too enthusiastic. Soaked fabric was one thing, but staining the chair was another. 

_Calm down_ , she tried telling it, but even her tits were aware. Prepared. Displeased that they were here, hidden away, and not there, in Ben’s mouth. 

She shifted, taking another sip of water. 

Time was running out. Rose was already back, though she didn’t seem ready—she kept smacking the side of the camera, muttering curses. 

Someone’s hand brushed her hair. “Doing okay?”

Ben. There was almost a tangible buzz in the space he occupied. An electricity. He’d calmed marginally, but his eyes had never returned to normal. Whiteness still reigned; the red was darker, though, and spreading. 

Another pass of his hand. He seemed to realize what he was doing, then forced himself to stop. His arm hung awkwardly at his side. 

Unthinking, Rey reached for his fidgeting fingers. He laced them through hers. She wasn’t sure how to answer his question. “Doing better than Scott, I think.”

Ben’s eyes drifted somewhere over her head. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone cower, before.”

“Mm.” She made a sound of sad agreement. “If there was a prize, he’d win it. Very delicate trembling, have you noticed? It’s almost graceful. Hey.” She shook their joined hands to reclaim his attention. His gaze returned slowly, his brow furrowed in a way that Scott couldn’t inspire. “Are _you_ okay?” 

As soon as she said it, she wanted to take it back. It was the dumbest question in the world. Of course he wasn’t okay. He was a vampire. He was a vampire who hadn’t fed being told he _couldn’t_ feed—not now, possibly not soon. His instincts didn’t care about flattering camera angles or fussy electronics or assistants with weak knees. He was starving, and his dick was still a bold outline in his jeans. She hadn’t seen him touch it during the break. 

He opened his mouth, trapping a frustrated sound when he closed it. 

When no other response was forthcoming, she considered the hand in her grip. Time to change the subject. “You know, if porn isn’t part of your long term plan, you could always launch a career in thumb wrestling. What are the odds that one of your ancestors fucked a giant? Er…” She did a quick visualization. Anatomy alarm bells blared in her mind. “Acquired giant semen, accidentally or otherwise? Not that giantess eggs are out of the question, but—”

“Pinch me.” 

She blinked. It was too difficult to read the look on his face, so she hazarded a guess. “You’re not dreaming. That actually is a cum stain on the wall. Poe suggested finding a frame and calling it modern art. Goblins really do have the most excessively messy orgasms. You can ask Rose, if you don’t believe me. I tried three different cleaning agents, all of them corrosive, and—”

He interrupted her again. His words were firmer, this time. “Pinch me if I don’t stop.” 

She was tempted to babble again, if only to chase away the serious shape of his frown. But the moment suddenly felt too heavy. “You’re going to have to be more specific,” she said gently. 

“Pinch me if I don’t stop drinking.” 

She stared. 

“I don’t—” The frustrated noise returned. He dropped his gaze to their joined hands, squeezing once. A reassurance. “I meant what I said. About trusting me. I’m not going to hurt you. But Poe wants this bloody, and I don’t know if I can follow through.” 

_He doesn’t want to waste a drop,_ she thought numbly. “Okay.” 

“I’ll try. But if I don’t…?” he trailed off. 

She realized he wanted an answer. “I’ll pinch you,” she said, not liking how it didn’t erase the worry from Ben’s face. A wild thought begged to be voiced. “If you’re…” _Don’t say nervous. Don’t say scared._ “uncomfortable, we can stop.” Her heart throbbed a passionate objection. Still, she added, “It’s not too late.” 

He laughed, hollow and somehow dangerous. “Yes, it is.”

\--

It felt good to be on her knees. 

They’d stopped twice already—once for still photos, once for Scott’s audible squeak when Rey pulled her tits out of her bra—but she’d been sucking Ben’s cock for a solid five minutes and Rose hadn’t said a word. 

Rey had never hated blowjobs. It wasn’t a chore to suck her partner’s cock, and she hadn’t been lying to Poe: she was proud of her technique. She’d tested it on set, in her bedroom, and—very memorably—in a phone booth at a theme park, and she’d had no grand complaints. 

All the same, it wasn’t something she loved. 

Swallowing a stray hair wasn’t the end of the world, but it happened more often than she enjoyed. And while she could manage it, deepthroating wasn’t something she advertised. Whose esophagus liked getting repeatedly dick-punched? Cum was cum—tolerable, but too salty and bitter to ever be something she craved. 

But she did it. And she was good at it. And she wouldn’t weep if she never did it again. 

She should have known Ben would break the rules. She’d wanted to taste him on the couch, and now that she’d been offered the chance, it was better than she’d ever hoped. 

He wasn’t a cold emperor on a throne, accepting his due. He was talking—praising her dirty mouth, fisting his hands in her hair, choking off words when she sucked in the ways she was learning he liked. _That didn’t sound fake_ , she thought proudly, when one of his curses curled up into a moan. _I think he likes it._

She did, too. 

She liked the faint tremor in his thighs. She liked the pink she saw on the tops of his cheeks, the almost invisible sheen of sweat hiding by his ears. She liked how he wanted to fuck her throat but didn’t—how desperately hard he was trying to follow the script and keep this _tender_ , how he couldn’t quite manage it. 

“I dreamed about this,” he panted. “Your mouth.” 

She couldn’t answer, but held his gaze. Her tongue swept under the head of his dick, enjoying its weight, while her hand unhurriedly pumped.

“Do you want me to tell you how it went?”

It was hard to nod, but whatever she did was close enough. 

“You were newly turned. Had the sharpest little fangs I’ve ever seen.” One of his thumbs caressed the stretch of her lips, building the fantasy, and it was too easy to play along. To pretend that her teeth were different, longer, deadlier. Designed to puncture and bite. “You were hungry. You asked if I could feed you, and I laughed. You’d fed a dozen times already. My greedy wife.” He said it lovingly, like it made him proud. 

Rey closed her eyes and imagined it: a clawing desire, something that burned in her throat and her brain both, begging for an end. She sucked harder. 

“I offered my neck, and _uhn_ —” His cock grazed the back of her throat. “You shook your head. I showed you my wrists and you only smiled. My thighs, my shoulders, my chest—you said no each time. I didn’t know what you wanted, and then you went to your knees.” 

Her cunt throbbed. 

“You wanted something else.”

It was impossible not to touch herself, and she knew when Ben realized: he growled, low and deadly enough that her instincts insisted she run. 

She dipped a finger inside. 

“You made me stand. Just like this.”

Wet. Already dripping.

“You bled when you smiled. Pink teeth. You licked me and you begged.” With a deep breath, she swallowed him down, not stopping until her nose rubbed the hair at his root. Ben swayed, grunting again. Louder. “So— _fuck_ —so fucking hungry for my cock.”

She _was_. He was already in her mouth, down her throat, and somehow she wanted more. 

“And watching you, it—” 

She needed more than her fingers. They were soaked and too small and it wasn’t enough.

“It made me hungry, too.”

Pulling back, lungs hungry for air, she let the pitifully dull points of her teeth drag across the delicate skin. _So easy_ , she thought wildly, _it would be so easy_ and that distant sound was Ben—a sharp, breathless gasp and whatever he was saying now, whatever he forced past the groans and the gnashing of his teeth was different. Clumsy. Like his tongue had forgotten the shape of speech. _His fangs_ , she finally realized. He was trying to talk past his fangs. 

“I let you take what you wanted.” His hands were no longer content to passively touch—they dug sharp points into the back of her neck, scrabbling from her jaw to her ears to her hair, tugging harder, infused with demanding want. “I let you feed.” 

How long would he let her drink, she wondered. Would he notice it, the way humans do? Would she take enough that she’d feel it in her belly? Would she go round from his blood? 

“And the whole time, I imagined—”

 _Too fast_. The distant warning was irrelevant. _You’re going too fast._

“—what it would be like—”

There was nowhere to go but she pressed herself closer, crazed because she could taste him. He was leaking steadily and it wasn’t blood, it wasn’t the fantasy, but it was _him_ and she moaned, clawing at the back of his thighs. 

“—when I did it to you.” 

Strong, powerful arms picking her up, and that _was_ blood on her tongue—he’d nicked her lip, too wild to be careful, and she knew he was walking them toward the bed but how could she focus on anything but this? The way his kisses stole her breath, how she couldn’t care if she ever breathed again if it meant he’d hold her like this—like he’d burn cities, conquer _worlds_ to keep her in his arms. 

Her back hit the mattress, and there was a ripping— _my skirt, he’s ripped my skirt_ —before Ben was hissing, frustrated with the fabric hiding her cunt, and she tried to help, numb hands pushing at the lace, but she wasn’t fast enough and then that was gone too, ruined beyond repair, and she was choking, caught between crying and shrieking because his mouth, his mouth, his _mouth_.

There were no shy licks, no teasing. His tongue wasn’t gentle. He _ate_ her, noisily and too sloppy for a porn star. 

“Fucking _soaked_ ,” he forced out, too garbled for the cameras, and Rey nodded, frantically and pointlessly because she _was_ —the noises were obscene, a mix of what she leaked and the spit from his mouth. His chin had to be soaked, but she couldn’t look. This would end if she looked. The pressure was already building— _fast, so fucking fast_ —and if he remembered he had fingers, if he could stop long enough to use them, it was over. 

Her back arched, one hand clutching at the sheets and the other reaching for his hair, and she needed to be louder. This was porn— _wasn’t it, wasn’t that what they were doing, wasn’t this supposed to be a lie?_ —and noiselessness didn’t sell, everyone wanted to hear but she could only manage this, an open mouth and the rustling of the sheets as she twisted, wanting more and fearing it, dragging her cunt against his mouth never knowing if this time he’d bite. 

“Look at me.” 

She couldn’t. 

“ _Look_ at me.” His voice was a ruin. “Please.”

Knowing what it meant, she did. 

She was right. His chin was a mess of wet. Her thighs were shiny, and what she could see of her cunt was the same. His hair was creased where she’d tugged it and his eyes…

She’d never seen such a black. 

The brown of his iris had disappeared. The white was barely holding on, would soon be eclipsed by red. Rey had met _demons_ with less demonic eyes. It was a terrible, beautiful thing to behold. 

His words were an anchor to reality. “Good,” he praised, and how did he sound so calm? “Now I want you to listen.” He pressed a quick, messy kiss to her clit. An addict caught in the grips of his high. “I’m going to stuff you with these—” he rested the back of his wrist on her skin, letting two fingers curl up and it was a message her body could so easily read; it knew exactly where he meant to touch inside, “—and you’re going to come.”

A whimper escaped her throat. 

“I want you to scream.”

 _Not a problem_ , she wanted to bleat. _Not a problem, not a problem, not a—_

“What do you think will happen when you stop?”

She shook her head. “I—I don’t—”

“What am I going to do with my cock?”

A better question. Easier. She forced the words between her gritted teeth. “You’re going to fuck me.” 

Another kiss, just as sloppy. A reward. “Yes, I am. And what happens when I fuck you?” 

She heard her answer as if from far away. “You’re going to—” Her eyes dipped down, trading the shock of his eyes for the horror of his teeth. They were something out of a nightmare. Thick and starkly white against the swollen flush of his lips, she could hardly believe she’d _have_ a neck by the time he was finished. Teeth like that were designed to shred, to maim, not to—

“Say it.”

“You’re going to bite me,” she said bravely, and hoped it sounded like a challenge. She gathered up the last remaining shreds of her sanity and held his gaze. Defiant. “But words are cheap.” 

Only the flash of a grin before he started sucking and she was full and immediately, immediately screaming with a force that shocked her, that she would have found embarrassing if she were aware of anything other than the orgasm that ripped her apart and remade her all at once. 

He kept going until her vision started to darken. She didn’t know how he knew to stop, but he was kissing her again—violently, snarling with praise ( _“Fucking knew you’d be good”_ ) and fucking her, splitting her open until she was stretched with the size of him, until she couldn’t take more, and it was perfect. 

“Hey, guys.”

Rey didn’t know where to hold him, but she had to choose fast: his thrusts were sending her up the bed. 

“Guys.”

His back was slippery. She had to use her nails like claws to get the slightest bit of leverage. She wanted to hide her face against his chest, but he was hunching now, drawing back just far enough to expose her neck. One massive hand squeezed her shoulder, then slowly encircled her throat and what had he said, an eternity ago? 

_I can control it, if it bothers you, but it’s usually a good sign I’m getting ready to bite._

She was ready.

“Whoa.”

Ben made a sound beyond speech, and too much was happening—he’d never stopped his pace, never stopped fucking, and the slide of his cock was sweet torture. She wanted to bask in the feel of it, how his skin was slick against hers, but he was saying something she couldn’t understand (was it pleading? Was it was prayer?) and her heart was hammering because those were his lips and that was the prick of his teeth. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” 

The pressure from his teeth increased. Then it lessened. He shifted his head, deciding on a different angle. 

“Ben, _enough_.” Rose’s voice climbed until it broke. “We’re not ready!” 

Rey’s eyes flew open. 

The set. The filming. Ben was about to bite her and they were supposed to stop. 

If he’d heard Rose, he didn’t care. He was licking Rey’s neck, his thrusts slowing but still powerful, and he was about to do it—his tongue was gone and his teeth were back. His jaw opened wider and what had he said to do? If he couldn’t stop? 

Something trickled down her neck.

Her fingers followed the order she was too frazzled to name. She pinched him. Hard. 

Not a twitch. 

She breathed, wondering if she should do it again, but his hips stuttered then stopped. Their breathing was still a labored, noisy rhythm and she didn’t dare move. Her head was cocked and she couldn’t see his face, but there was a new sound. A whine. 

Movement to her right and she could just make out the edge of his hand. He’d taken a fistful of sheet. His knuckles were white. 

She blinked. Her cunt throbbed, and she was aware of Rose hovering at the edge of the bed. 

Ben was struggling to breathe. His inhales were choppy, faltering things—he’d manage half a breath only to choke. Her hands hadn’t moved from his back; she could feel the trembling of muscles harder than stone. The whining was low, but it hadn’t ceased. It wavered between a pitiful plea and a darker, wounded grunt. 

“You’re all right.” Rey couldn’t hear him and try not to help. She ran a hand up and down his side, comforting. “It’s okay. You did it. You stopped.” 

“ _Fuck_.” He spat the word against her neck. He tried lifting his head, but only managed an inch or so before he relatched. “Fuck,” he said again, mumbled against her skin, but he didn’t bite. 

“Do I need to get the garlic water?” Rose asked tentatively, when no more movement was forthcoming. “I put it in a spritzer.” 

Ben hissed, aggravated, and it was Rey that said, “No. We’re okay.” She patted Ben’s side, very aware that she was still speared on his cock when he shifted. She dared to move her neck, forcing him to follow or let go, and felt encouraged when his mouth dropped away. “We’ve got it.” 

Slowly, like a man breaking free of stone, Ben raised his head. 

_Don’t react_ , Rey told herself, but it was challenging. 

Black eyes, of course. No white remained. His cheeks were flushed, and Rey ached to wipe the beaded sweat from his brow. None of it was more heartbreaking than the state of his lip: he’d bitten too many holes too close together. It looked like butchered meat. 

Oh, Ben. 

“Please don’t move.” The words sounded like they’d been dragged through rocks. Beaten for an eternity against unyielding earth. “I don’t think I—this is hard.”

“I know,” she said softly. 

“You taste—” His eyes closed, brow furrowing as if in pain. “I can’t even—”

And that’s right, wasn’t it? He _had_ tasted her, if only a drop. She wanted to rub her neck to check, but she remembered his words. She stayed still. 

She watched him breathe. 

The facts were undeniable. They were on set. Rose was whispering hushed instructions to Scott because Rey and Ben were not alone. They were filming. They had to stop because this was it—the selling point. There were plenty of big dicks in the world. Plenty of tall men who could pretend to be husbands. No one bought vampire porn to watch two strangers hump on a bed; there was supposed to be _blood_ , and it was supposed to be a production. Close up shots of fangs. Still photos for thumbnails. Too much light and the blood was washed out; too little and it might as well be fake. 

Rey knew this. 

She knew what should be done, but theory felt insignificant. A stranger wasn’t above her, struggling to breathe. She wasn’t fucking a nameless, horny vampire. She was fucking _Ben_. The man who’d cooked her food. Fixed her doorknob so she could feel safe. A vampire, yes, but a vampire who’d insisted on filling her fridge. She’d laughed with him before he’d ever seen her naked. 

He had almost bitten her, but he’d stopped. And he was paying a terrible price. 

She thought of the porn and then she thought of Ben. 

It was easy to do what she did next. 

She presented her neck. 

Ben instantly bit out a groan. “You can’t move,” he pleaded. A warning. “You can’t move, or I’ll bite you and I shouldn’t, I—”

“I know,” she said calmly, “but do it anyway.”

He blinked. With his eyes so changed, it was difficult to tell where he looked, but she felt it anyway: two pinpoints of heat on her neck. There was an immediate change in his body. His shuddering stilled. His hips rocked twice. 

His moved his hand—as slowly as he could manage, she knew—to her jaw. He pushed her to a better angle and she let him. 

She rocked back into his new thrusts. “Do it,” she begged, and let one hand tangle in his hair. 

She felt a soft, sweet kiss. The brush of ravaged lips. 

He bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws sex confetti*
> 
> First off: I'm sorry this took me so long. I procrastinated on my charity fic, which meant that I didn't actually start writing this until last weekend. Yikes. Thank you for your patience. I meant what I said, though: I will not leave this fic unfinished. It'll end, one way or another. 
> 
> Secondly, I am so honored that @SpaceMinstrels made me this [amazing 9 Pints video!](https://twitter.com/talltig/status/1228805524604563456) I've watched it so many times. And @curiousnifflin put together a fantastic [moodboard](https://twitter.com/curiousniffin/status/1220855233477324800) complete with mugs and TACOS, I die. Thank you both so much!
> 
> I didn't show my face much on Twitter out of why-haven't-you-updated shame, but here's my handle if you'd like to stop by: [@talltig](https://twitter.com/talltig). I'd love to know what you've been reading and watching in a post-TROS world. 
> 
> <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder warning: sex and blood.

At first she wasn’t sure he’d really done it. 

_Screaming?_ she thought. _Aren’t I supposed to be screaming?_

If there was no other commonality in her porn research, that had been it. All of them, every blood donor: they’d pled for mercy (or _looked_ like they wanted to plead for mercy), and then they opened their lips and howled. 

Rey didn’t feel like howling. There was always the possibility that she was doing it beyond conscious awareness, but she could hear other things. 

Rose, cursing violently. The thud of her footsteps as she ran back to the camera. 

Scott, chanting a mumbling self-help mantra.

And Ben. 

It was supremely bizarre to _hear_ him drink. Even more bizarre to know that his water bottle was across the room, that he wasn’t guzzling a protein shake or a wheat-grass smoothie. He was drinking her blood and she could feel it: a light tugging, almost like the start of a professional hickey. She couldn’t feel his fangs (although they were surely involved) but there, that was the swipe of his tongue. Licking her neck. Making sure he didn’t lose a drop of his meal. 

Feeding sounds continued. The occasional swallow— _thick, my blood sounds so thick_ —and a rumbling, deep hum of contentment. His hands were no longer on her neck. They’d reached underneath her, instead—drawing her up until her back left the bed entirely. She clung to his shoulders. 

It wasn’t frantic. He wasn’t snarling into her skin or shredding her back with scrabbling claws. He held her like she was something precious, like his hands knew no other purpose. She wondered what would happen if someone tried to stop him. 

Experimentally, she tried moving her neck. 

A rough sound of displeasure, followed by a few firmer sucks. He clutched her tighter. 

Needful, then. And not finished. 

He wasn’t draining her dry. Rey knew what it was to lose dangerous amounts of blood (thanks, skiing; thanks, enormous tree), and she wasn’t confused. She didn’t feel clammy or cold. 

She felt…warm, actually. Not the kind of blushing, superficial heat she associated with sex, but like a coal had lodged itself deep inside her chest. Each pull from Ben’s mouth was fuel—a gentle fanning at first, but he’d fed for long enough that she was starting to notice a difference. A growing edge, like the first curl of smoke in a copse plagued with drought. 

He’d stopped his thrusts when he first bit, but his hips twitched again. Rey heard a surprised, happy moan of pleasure (had he forgotten what they were doing, how this started?) before what had clearly been an accident became intentional. He rocked once. When she gasped, he did it harder. 

Her cunt had never stopped throbbing. She’d come on his fingers, but they’d been fucking before Rose interrupted, and Rey had almost forgotten how _good_ it had been. His was absolutely the largest cock she’d ever taken, but she was wet enough. Stretched enough. Greedy for it, too. These things on top of a very obvious truth: he knew what he was doing. 

Hard, fast fucks were the industry standard and Ben had certainly obliged. He would have fucked her off the bed if she hadn’t held on earlier, but he hadn’t pummeled her cervix like a battering ram. At no point had she hidden a grimace in an overblown wail of pleasure. He was controlled—relentless, forceful thrusts that curled her toes, teasing the line of _too much, too big, too deep_ without ever crossing it. 

Remembering how it _had_ felt made her want to feel it again. Only Ben wasn’t cooperating. 

He was aware enough to hear her gasps, aware enough to occasionally reward them. He _wanted_ to fuck, if she could believe the small, helpless rocking of his hips. But he was also enthralled with her neck. 

_So good_ , she thought she heard him slur. _So fucking good_. 

She didn’t have much leverage. Any attempt to rock back into his erratic thrusts was fruitless—only her shoulders brushed the bed, and Ben seemed content enough to hold her and lazily suck. Sooner or later, that wouldn’t be enough: either Rose would make good on her promise to spritz him with garlic water like an errant cat, or Rey would expire from sexual frustration.

Because she felt hotter now. 

It was hard to tell where the heat started. Her clit felt swollen, desperate for friction Ben was too mindless to provide. There was a distracting, buzzing current in the spaces their bodies touched—the taut skin of his belly against hers, where her thighs locked against his hips, the thick length of his cock inside—and it wasn’t a feeling she recognized. It made her squirm, unsure if it was something she should fear. 

“Ben.” She had to ask him, because this couldn’t—was he feeling this, too? It was everywhere, now: ten thousand little flames licking at her skin, sinking deeper to ignite the blood beneath. “Do you—?”

Part of her didn’t really expect an answer. He hadn’t seemed interested in stopping earlier, so it was almost shocking to feel him unlatch, to realize that his fangs had sunk so deep. 

“Mm?” A sound, not a word. But it felt like progress. 

Something dribbled down her neck. She expected to feel his tongue, but he nosed at it instead. His inhale was deep, his exhale sharp and ending on a moan. 

_“Rose, I think I’m—I think I’m gonna—”_

_“You faint, you’re fired. Grab the handheld. If we hurry we can get the second bite.”_

_“He’s going to—again?”_

_“Yes, again. He didn’t seal the first, which means he—”_

“Hurry, Rey.” 

Ben’s voice. Husky and blood-drunk, a rumble against her ear. 

What was the question?

Another absentminded thrust. She clenched her eyes shut to ride the wave that followed, then grit her teeth to survive the next. Somehow, she managed to ask, “Do you feel hot?” 

So slurred that it was almost a hiss: “Yes.”

“Because I feel really hot.”

“Good.”

She waited, and he didn’t seem interested in elaborating. He nuzzled her neck, smearing the wetness there, and it was an odd, odd contrast to the way he snapped his hips. Maddening. Whatever pleasure he found in her blood had obviously distracted him from sex, but Rey didn’t have that luxury. She was forced to feel what she felt: a heat that kept rising, a ruthless need she couldn’t sate. Not alone. 

There really wasn’t a good way to say it. “You’re not fucking me.” 

“Yes, I am.”

“Not—” She choked off a whimper when he rolled his hips. “Like you were.”

“Hm.” A thoughtful noise, but nothing more. Like he recognized the first protest of a familiar fight and knew better than to engage. Greedy for contact, he hefted her up even closer and it was a cruel apology: she had even less control and she’d die like this, wouldn’t she? Speared on a cock and bleeding from her neck, Ben too blissed out to notice. 

Knowing she sounded desperate, she babbled, “It’s flattering, that you— _unh_ , that feels—I’m so happy that I taste…however I taste, but I’m hot, like I said, and why don’t…why don’t we switch? Let me be on top and you can do whatever you—” It was getting harder to focus. She knew what she wanted but the words were floating away, insignificant dust in the wind. “I just need…” Her head fell back when he sucked. She almost believed the lie her body immediately insisted was true: _our clit, he’s tonguing our clit, make him do it again, it was good, it felt so—_

“What do you need?”

She opened her eyes and almost yelped. So much had changed. 

He’d finally abandoned her neck. She had no idea when he’d set her down on the bed, but he had: he held his weight on his forearms, the mattress dipping near her ears. She’d stopped clinging to him; her arms were flopped in an undignified sprawl above her head. Wiggling her fingers, she realized she’d unconsciously reached for the rungs of the headboard. 

“Rey,” he nudged again, but she was speechless because _his mouth_.

Red. Not pink, not a smudge that disappeared between one blink and the next. It was a dark, deep color that reminded her of wine. His chin, his nose, even the smoothness of his cheeks—all of it was stained.

_With your blood_ , her mind helpfully supplied. _That’s your blood._

A fat bead of it lingered at the corner of his lips. Dazed, she watched as he tongued it away. 

“Uh,” she said intelligently. 

“You said you need.” 

“I—” There was no part of her that didn’t throb. Focusing on his words was like trying to climb a greased wall; the harder she tried, the less successful she felt. She knew it had something to do with the achingly lovely way she burned. Why was she burning? 

Her neck felt strange. She tried to touch, but Ben caught her hand, deftly pinning it to the bed. 

He shook his head. “Mine.”

She breathed, watching him. The air was thicker. Her lungs struggled to expand. 

With another firm push to her hand— _this stays here_ —he cocked his head, studying her neck as he brought his fingers to the place she’d tried to touch. 

“There are no words for it.” He sounded awkward, oddly formal. Like he was speaking a language lost to time. His knuckles were a tender caress against her skin, his black eyes interested in nothing beyond the pattern he traced. “For the way you taste.” 

She didn’t know which was worse: the agony of needing, or the agony of knowing he could end her torment but was too far gone to manage it. 

“Ben,” she tried, understanding right away that it didn’t matter. He didn’t hear her; even if he had, she wasn’t sure what she would have said next. 

“I dreamed of it.” His fingertips traced a slow path from her neck to her chest, never lifting from her skin. A bloody roadmap. “Of you, in my bed. The bite. The moments after.” He spoke as if he’d never left, like the dream lived on. They weren’t on a set. There were no cameras or a silly façade—just the red pattern he traced and the skin he traced it upon. “You looked at me and held out your arms. Unafraid. Then I kissed you and you smiled and it felt…like being alive. The sweetest blood.” 

The path of his fingers was a new burn. Almost cold, and soothing in the face of the blaze beneath her skin. 

A slight furrow on his brow. He’d run out of blood. His eyes flicked to her neck but he leaned back instead, weight on his knees, and hupped her hips closer. 

“Fuck.” She ground her cheek into the mattress, hands scrambling to seek the frame. Did he know? Did he know how that felt when he— 

His fingers went to his mouth. She couldn’t tell if he bit himself or if some of her blood still lingered, but his thumb was red when it slipped past his lips and his eyes were glazed as he brought the wetness to her chest. Instinct, was her only guess. It had to be some sort of instinct that drove him to paint, to create whatever pattern he drew, his touch gentle but intent. 

Time was an endless haze. Rey could only survive it—pinned between this moment and the next, trying not to clench and just _breathe_ because moving made it worse. 

But then he was done, blinking like a man finally free of a spell. He looked at her chest. 

_“The battery. There’s no—”_

_“The cord, then. Get the cord. On your left.”_

He looked at her neck. 

_“I don’t—”_

_“Your other fucking left.”_

He looked at her lips, swollen from her fangless bites. His breathing—so steady as he’d drawn—picked up. 

_“What is he doing?”_

_“Don’t worry about him. Worry about the cord. Worry about how good I am at strangulation.”_

_“But he’s—”_

_“I know. Hurry.”_

A thrust—slow, like he’d forgotten how. His jaw tightened. Another thrust, and he echoed Rey’s groan. When she reached for him, scrabbling at whatever part she could touch, he hissed and she hissed back. She was almost _angry_ for it, now. Past desperate. 

“Enough,” Rey pled. The word felt too heavy on her tongue. Complicated. “Please.” 

His cheeks were flushed. His eyes dipped down to his cock; he seemed to study the way he pierced her—a calculated slide in and a torturously slow slide out. He touched himself, then looked at his fingers. “Wet,” he breathed. Awed, like he was the first man to discover it. 

She nodded, frantic, because yes, she was wet. She was dripping and she’d _been_ dripping and his first bite was hazy, something hidden behind the fogged glass of memory, but she could see his fangs and she hoped he’d bite her again. She wanted to feel it. A hard thrust and she closed her eyes, imagining the moment when he pierced her skin, how it’d echo the pull and drag of his cock and this was unendurable, it was all she could do to just—

He kissed her. Savagely. 

“You were so good for me.” The words were bullets of sound, groaned against her lips. If there was blood on his tongue, she couldn’t taste it. “You feel—this feels so—”

Rey couldn’t admit she knew what he meant, even though she understood. Speech was too enormous of a task. She could only moan again, grunting when he finally, _finally_ picked up a regular rhythm. Her head fell back, tipping until the crown hit the bed.

“Take care of you.” His kisses were interspersed with nips, now. She tried to claw him in encouragement. “I promised. I will. Rey, I’m gonna—” More kisses, more words lost to deeper, wilder groans. His hips snapped and the sound was obscene, as wet as he’d said. “I have to—” He growled into her neck. “I— _fuck_ , have to—”

Ruined. Whatever he’d painted on her chest was _ruined_ , it had to be, because they were fucking now— _finally,_ she wanted to weep—and was that her, snarling? Enormous hands locked with her own, sliding them up and up until there, that was the headboard, and he was guiding her to hold it and she had no breath to ask why but it didn’t matter, something was building to an impossible height and it’d crash, _she’d_ crash and she wasn’t sure what she’d be in the aftermath. 

Fangs pricked her skin, but only fleetingly. Ben was panting—too overwhelmed, maybe, or too picky to decide where to bite.

"Anywhere," she groaned, forcing her eyes open (when had they closed?) so she could see him. Black hair, black eyes. Feral beauty. "Anywhere," she tried again, and he hadn't asked a question but it didn't matter: his mouth returned with purpose. 

The rungs were slick where she held them. 

He managed a gentle, sloppy kiss. Spoke words. She didn't hear them. 

The bite came without warning, and this time she felt it: the painless, thick slide of his fangs—how her blood seemed to surge, a fire that eclipsed all reason. 

This time, she screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could write a novel about why this (so short!) chapter took an age, but it boils down to:
> 
> \- Major depression  
> \- Severe illness   
> \- Overwhelming work load   
> \- Family drama
> 
> Thank you for reading and for your patience. Everyone who reached out was so sweet. <3 Again, I can promise that I'm a completionist; I'll finish this. 
> 
> I practically disappeared from social media while my life settled down, but I hope to dive back in soon. Little by little. My Twitter is [@talltig](https://twitter.com/talltig), if you'd like to pop by for a hello.


	11. Chapter 11

“Five cakes. Seven. I’ll even do the ganache.”

“I will not be swayed by sugar.”

“Laundry. I’ve never met a fitted sheet I couldn’t fold. I’ll even—do you have an iron? No creases. Er…minimal creases. Minimally creased sheets.”

“Ironing sheets is not a thing.”

“It is, actually, and even if it weren’t, I’d make it a thing. For you. Such is the depth of my guilt. _Our_ guilt,” she stressed, pointing at Ben and then back at herself. A quick check confirmed that he looked unhelpfully content. He was always wont to prowl instead of walk, but it was hard to look overly menacing while filling a tortilla.

“I was unaware we were speaking of mutual remorse.”

“Well, he’s…” Rey cast around for the right adjective and, mind blank, stared at Ben for inspiration. He grinned before chomping into his burrito. Guacamole escaped. Its audible _plop_ onto the floor made her fingers twitch for want of a rag. Or a chip. “He’s tall.”

“What does height have to do with laundry?”

“Not much,” Rey admitted, but refused to let her enthusiasm flag. This was still a sellable idea. “But it has everything to do with dusting. When’s the last time you cleaned the top of your fridge? Fan blades are also within the realm of reason.”

“There’s this thing called a stool,” Rose said dryly.

Rey opened her mouth, but it was Ben who said, “It’s not her fault that Scott dropped the camera.”

Rose whirled. “Correct,” she bit, and jabbed a finger like she meant to stab his eye instead of the air. “It is _your_ fault. Hissing at assistants is unbecoming.”

He shrugged his shoulders, admiring his burrito. “I felt threatened.”

“How can you even say that? You have _fangs_. All Scott has is a nervous disposition.”

Ben grinned again. “And a broken camera.”

Rose’s air-jabbing intensified.

“Okay,” Rey spoke up, slightly worried that Rose would remember her garlic spritzer. “All right. Let’s just—we can’t change the past. What’s done is done.” She almost didn’t want to ask her next question, but, “How much did you manage to film?”

With a final, award-winning glare at Ben, Rose turned her head to look at Rey. The fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced with weary resignation. She sighed. “This one,” her boot nudged a tripod leg, “never stopped recording. Which _sounds_ good, until you realize most of it is unusable. Not only w—”

Ben interrupted with a loud groan. “Holy christ,” he said, eyes closed in apparent ecstasy. “Who catered?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Not _only_ was the angle all wrong, but the audio is shit.” When Rey’s eyes flicked to the fuzzy microphone attached to the camera, Rose sliced a dismissive hand through the air. “It picked everything up. I’m just saying _what_ it picked up was unfortunate. Do you know how many times you called each other by your real names?”

Rey winced. Oh. Right.

“Edit it out.” Ben suggested, wiping his burrito-less hands on a napkin.

Rose scoffed. “Poe couldn’t _begin_ to foot that bill. Bullying that footage into something salvageable would take weeks. Finn does this shit part-time, same as us.”

Heavy with guilt, Rey’s heart tried to slide down to her stomach. “What about the rest? Even if we’d shot it perfectly, we wouldn’t be finished.” She wasn’t looking at him, but she could tell Ben stopped eyeing the mini-buffet. His attention firmly re-focused. She felt it—a warm streak of sunlight in a chilly room. “Can we make up for it? I know we butchered the first bite, but…”

“Have you seen yourself?” Rose asked, somewhat gently. “I’m not trying to be an asshole, but all the makeup in the world won’t hide how thoroughly you’ve already been fucked.”

It wasn’t a thing to blush about—she _did_ feel fucked, even if Ben’s determined licking had erased most of the visual evidence—but her cheeks threatened to flame. She spoke before her brain decided to do something irrational, like flee to the nearest lockable closet. “So Poe digs deep into his pockets. He pays Finn for some creative editing and we pretend the bite didn’t happen at all. At least not then. We use the initial fuck, but splice it with whatever we do next and that’ll work, won’t it?”

“Are you okay?”

Rey blinked, thrown. “Is it honestly that bad of an idea?”

“No, it’s—” Rose rubbed at her eyes with both hands, then dropped them with a small sound of defeat. “You’re right. It’s more complicated, but it’s not unfixable.” She jerked a thumb at Ben. “As long as that one’s still hungry.”

Ben, immediately: “Yes.”

Rose seemed unconvinced. “You inhaled three burritos. They were in your hands and then they were gone. You used copious amounts of guacamole.”

“Blood’s different.”

“You already drank. _Twice._ ”

“Different,” he said firmly, and Rose threw up her hands.

“Fine. But seriously,” she said, turning back to Rey. “Are you okay?”

“Why are you—?” There wasn’t a nearby mirror, but Rey tried to catalogue anything suspicious in Rose’s line of sight. She was wearing a robe, a spare pair of panties underneath. Neither were dotted with blood. Earlier, she’d hobbled her first steps away from the bed, but it had only been temporary and she hadn’t walked much since. She was fine. Rose couldn’t be concerned that her cunt had tapped out. And there wasn’t—what else was there? She tilted her head in confusion. “That’s the second time you’ve asked that.”

“You keep rubbing your chest, is all.”

“Except that I’m n—” Except that she was, actually. Right then. The heel of her hand was frozen mid-grind above her heart. Part of her wanted to scowl (how dare her body do such a thing without her permission?) but surprised curiosity won out.

_What the hell?_ She stared at her own chest like it might offer up the answer.

“Rey?”

The new note of concern in Rose’s voice needed to be squashed, so Rey quickly said, “My nipples.” And that was _definitely_ a masculine smirk of pride on Ben’s face, but before she could inquire about the state of his back (scarlet ribbons, was the description that she’d settled on earlier), she realized it wasn’t the whole truth. 

Her tits _were_ sore—even after Ben had traced away the bruises, the ache remained—but they didn’t need soothing. This was something else. 

Temporary escape was needed. Between Rose’s fragile forgiveness and Ben’s obnoxiously watchable eating habits, it was impossible to concentrate on what was now a noticeable _something_ stirring in her chest. It wasn’t anything close to a hurt, but that didn’t mean it was worth ignoring. 

She took a step toward the door, then remembered Ben’s earlier twitchiness. Sated, his eyes had mostly reverted to their usual color—the red was wholly gone, though the black lingered—and he didn’t _look_ like he needed a warning, but she also didn’t want to risk a territorial pounce. There were too many expensive things in breaking distance. 

She settled on, “Did Scott finish cleaning his breakfast off the bathroom floor?”

Rose, now studiously reviewing footage, answered absently. “I think I heard him go up the steps.” She made a few taps on the monitor, then frowned. “If you catch him eating the rest of his zapiekanka, say something chastising and smack it out of his hand. He’s lost his solid food privileges.” 

Halfway to the door, Rey paused. “He’s coming back?”

“A completionist and a nervous puker both.” Rose shrugged. “A paycheck’s a paycheck.”

Rey had a fair amount of follow-up questions, but swallowed them down. Her time was better used escaping. 

One last glance at Ben (he’d found a mirror and seemed absorbed in a thorough inspection of his teeth) and she slipped out of the room. 

—

It was surprising to realize that the world was unchanged. 

Logically, Rey knew that no amount of supernatural fucking would alter the weather, but it was somehow still bizarre to see Poe’s cat lounging in a streak of sunshine. He meowed what was clearly a question ( _“is there food upon your person?”_ ), but flicked his tail disinterestedly when she showed him her empty hands. 

“Conditional love is uncouth,” she reminded him, and left before he argued.

Scott was nowhere to be found, but the bathroom had been aggressively cleaned. Bleach threatened to burn her nose and it may have been the fumes, but her brain felt unrulier than usual. 

_You were fucked_ , it kept reminding her. _Ben fucked you._

Re-applying mascara: _And he’ll fuck you again._

Chipping off a flake of pixie cum from the wall: _And he’ll bite you again._

Rey was opposed to none of these things. After so many days of wondering and waiting and furious masturbation, she had her answers. She’d seen the shift in his eyes. She’d witnessed his terrible struggle. She could very distinctly recall the way his fangs had slipped into her skin, so effortless and strangely right. Pain played not the smallest part. She now intimately understood why Poe always so hopefully asked, “Does he have fangs?” when she started dating someone new. 

The bathroom was abandoned for the kitchen. Burritos were all well and good, but 1) she avoided eating heavy meals in the middle of a shoot and 2) Ben had probably stolen all of the carnitas. He was unapologetically selfish in his eating habits. 

Snacks snagged, she wandered to the second floor. 

The day hadn’t gone to plan, but she couldn’t say she regretted it. Rose was pissed, but Rose was also defenseless in the face of Rey’s baking. One, possibly two rounds of cinnamon rolls and Rose would probably thank her for encouraging Ben to bite. And even half-orcs liked shiny things; maybe she could find something worth polishing up at the thrift store. Scott’s address had to be on file. 

She adjusted a painting. Studied it. Decided Poe had hung it upside down. 

Procrastinating didn’t seem like a fair term. She wasn’t avoiding Ben. Or Rose. Or even the prospect of shooting. But all the same, it didn’t feel right to return. 

She rubbed her chest. 

She’d already peeked in the bathroom: there wasn’t anything wrong with her skin. No inexplicable rashes or bumps. What blood Ben hadn’t licked off had already been scrubbed away on set; one of her first post-fuck memories was Rose grumpily handing her a wet washcloth (cold, as was deserved) and monitoring as Rey dutifully erased what remained of Ben’s finger painting. Ben had watched, and Rey tried to remember what she’d seen in his eyes. Annoyance at the interruption, definitely, but a sadness, too. A little displeasure. She could understand: watching her wash away the blood was probably like watching someone burn a perfectly good steak. 

For thoroughness’ sake, she flashed Poe’s ugly painting and checked her skin again. Nothing. 

She was debating the wisdom of checking WebMD when she heard the floorboards creak. 

An excuse half-formed— _hi, yes, protein bars always taste better in darkened, abandoned hallways, have you noticed?_ —before it died on her tongue. The face staring back at hers was green. Partially because he still looked close to puking, but mostly because he was Scott. 

“Hello,” she tried. 

With what appeared to be a tremendous amount of courage, he whispered back. “Hello.”

Painfully aware that he looked close to bolting, she tried to channel the soothing energy of a thousand furry puppy bellies. Or a Xanax. “Can I help you find something?”

He shook his head. 

“Is everything okay?” she asked, and cursed when his eyes immediately appeared to glaze over with existential dread. Quickly, she gestured at the wall. “I don’t blame you for coming up here. Poe’s art aesthetic is something to behold. Have you seen his bedroom?”

Another silent _no_ , but arguably less frantic. 

“If a Hallmark store and a weld shop had irresponsible sex in the backseat of a car, that decor would be what they birthed. Disturbing combinations of porcelain and stainless steel.” Encouraged by the faintest suggestion of a smile, she added, “Which has nothing on his bathroom. I threatened to set it on fire, but he hired a witch for some fancy spellwork. You can’t even light a candle in there, now.” 

“You could try using his sword,” Scott suggested quietly. 

“Brute force. I like it.” She knew the sword he had in mind; Poe kept it in his dining room. Once, especially drunk, he tried to use it on a cooked ham. “If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll chip the blade.” He smiled an actual smile. It made her brave enough to ask, “Where did you meet Poe?” 

“By the asparagus.” Scott started to pick at a nail, but caught himself and stuffed his hands into his pockets, instead. “I—I don’t even know how it happened.”

Rey nodded sympathetically. Poe had that effect. 

“I walked in with a shopping list and I left with a job.” Even in the midst of said job, he still sounded like it couldn’t possibly be true. He swallowed audibly, then visibly steeled himself. “Is that how you guys met?” 

The truth was a long, uninteresting story, so she only smiled and said, “Almost.” 

There was a companionable silence. Dismissing Rose’s solid food decree, she held out her second protein bar. Scott reached, paused to prod questioningly at his own stomach, then grabbed the wrapper with a muffled thanks. His eye caught on the painting, so Rey shuffled over to make room. They were both staring at it when he asked, 

“Is it scary?”

He didn’t mean the artwork. Rey felt her eyebrows scrunch together. “Is what scary?”

He gestured downwards and eyed the floor with the same sort of fear most people reserved for lubeless anal. 

When no further explanation was offered, she guessed, “Filming?” 

“No. Being with him.”

“Ben?” she asked, incredulous. 

“A vampire,” Scott confirmed. “Is it scary?”

She caught herself before she laughed. Being with Ben was many things, but she couldn’t say a single moment of it had been scary. Overwhelming, perhaps. Financially draining, had he not done her the kind service of filling her fridge. But she had never feared anything beyond the loss her sanity. 

Scott, still patiently waiting for an answer, took a small bite of his gifted snack. 

She needed more to work with. “What makes him scary?” 

“Lots of things. He has very sharp teeth.”

Rey wanted to laugh again. “ _You_ have very sharp teeth.” 

Scott made a polite noise of disagreement. “Big’s not the same as sharp.” 

True, though she refused to believe orc teeth weren’t dangerous. She considered what she could see of Scott’s: poking up beyond the edge of his lip, they were admittedly blunt. But there was a reason why orcs liked their meat cooked bone-in. It was a noisy thing, to sit next to a group of them at dinner. 

“Ben wouldn’t bite you without your permission.” She hazarded a guess at his true fear. “Even the most dishonorable vampires have a code about that. They’d rather starve.” 

It was obvious Scott didn’t agree, although he did seem to weigh her words. “He wouldn’t bite me for blood. He’d bite me because he didn’t like me.” 

Absurd. “Why wouldn’t he like you?”

He stared at her worriedly, as if the answer were so obvious that her question must be a trick. “Because he likes _you_. Vampires are territorial.”

“You mean he’s a good actor,” she said carefully. 

“No, I mean he likes you.”

_Of course he likes me_ , Rey thought wildly. _I let him borrow Planet Earth on BluRay._ “What makes you say that?”

A helpless shrug of his shoulders. Finished with his snack, he delicately folded up the wrapper. “He looks at you a lot.”

“I’m his meal ticket,” she made herself say, although she couldn’t fully suppress the bubbling bit of hope in her heart. _Gone_ , she reminded herself cruelly. _He’s here for the job and soon he’ll be gone._ Even if it were true, even if there _was_ real interest, what would it matter? It wasn’t smart. He didn’t live nearby. They’d known each other for less than a week and it was her blood, surely. He’d admitted it himself: he was hungry. Starving. Of course he’d play nice with his food. 

Her eye strayed to the nearest doorknob. 

“Not just in hunger,” Scott tried to argue. “But if you don’t believe me, there’s—it was the way he smelled, too.”

Rey tried to remember what she could of orcs. She had no idea how strong their sense of smell was, but strong was a relative term in the supernatural community. Weak for an orc was still probably eighty times better than a human. 

“How did he smell?” she asked cautiously. 

Scott looked to the ceiling, his nose lightly scrunched. As if the smell still lingered in the air. “Not angry.” His eyes fell to her human nose. “Er. That’s how vampires usually smell. Like the world is something meant to be destroyed. Maybe because they’re hungry all the time?” He grimaced. “I know that’s not helpful.”

It seemed too obvious to point out, but Scott seemed oblivious to the truth. “He just got laid. Even demons seem chipper after an orgasm.”

Continually disagreeing was taking its toll: Scott’s hands escaped from their pockets and started worrying at a loose thread on his shirt. “I meant before. Not that he—not that he _wasn’t_ happy with sex. Your sex.” His cheeks started to turn a pitiful shade of brown. “The sex you were having.”

She took pity and cut him off with a sharp nod. “Right. Well, that’s...” _Information I have no idea what to do with?_ “Good.” Then she remembered something. Frowned. “If he didn’t smell angry, why did you ask me if I was scared?”

“I saw a rogue griffin on the news, once,” Scott said haltingly. “He seemed very happy with his diamonds. The owners of the fingers he’d chomped off to get them seemed a bit traumatized.”

Rey’s lip quirked. “Fair.”

“So...he’s nice?” 

That’s right. She’d never answered his question. 

Faced with the task, she realized it was almost impossible to describe Ben. She had a whole apartment’s worth of proof that he was kind, but she doubted Scott would believe Ben capable of something so banal as laundry, much less rewiring bathroom light fixtures. She could confidently say that Ben was observant and patient and moderately clever, but he wasn’t necessarily _nice_. The fairest thing to say was, “You don’t need to be scared of him.” And after a moment, because it was true: “He’s a good man.” 

Scott seemed unconvinced, but didn’t protest. 

Hoping that tamer conversation might mitigate the loss of additional body fluids, Rey guided them both to safer waters. She asked about his shirt (University of Miami, it read, and yes, he’d graduated last year), his favorite class (“Public speaking,” he answered, and Rey was speechless until he grinned), and a dozen other mindlessly neutral topics until his shoulders stopped touching his ears and fell to a less agonizing-to-see level. 

Eventually, something buzzed. Scott rescued a very old, very battered phone from his back pocket and turned a paler shade of green. “Rose,” was all he offered, before sprinting down the stairs, sprinting back up the stairs to say a breathless goodbye, and leaving before she could wave. 

Alone now, she turned back to the painting. It was almost as ugly as before. 

\--

Poe didn’t give much thought to punctuality. There were no friendly clocks on the walls and she didn’t have her phone, but Rose had strong lungs. If Rey were needed, she’d know. Until then, she was content to aimlessly wander. 

Chest rubbing was replaced with poking which was replaced by a senseless, embarrassing series of tentative knocks—as if whatever sensation rolling about beneath her breastbone was a new tenant capable of opening a door. 

“Enough,” she said to no one, and slipped into the closest room. 

It was a spare bedroom, and the smallest sniff made it immediately obvious that it had been used as part of the orgy. Someone (Poe, Rey guessed) had done a third-rate job of tidying the bedspread (she tugged it off; if the bathroom she’d bleached earlier was any indication, it needed a wash or five) and while he’d done a passable job of spot-cleaning the carpet, there was an unpleasant crunch when she walked toward the window.

Tugging the curtains aside filled the room with buttery sunlight. There was nothing especially captivating about the view—Poe’s empty pool, his lawn chairs, an empty but beautiful sky—but she stared anyway.

She focused. 

Ten seconds of concentration later, she still had no idea how to describe it. She only knew what it wasn’t. 

It wasn’t unpleasant. Whatever it was felt...not like something new, but something awakened. An organ kept in hibernation that had only just managed to yawn. It didn’t _need_ anything, as far as she could tell. It made no demands. It felt alive, yes, but not in a way that she feared. Instead of suppressing the desire to claw it out, she fought the temptation to open her arms. To welcome it home. 

_Hello_ , it seemed to say, ever so softly. _Hello, hello. I’m here._

She opened her mouth to answer, then shut it with a snap. She would _not_ lose her mind in a room that reeked of cum. 

Was it a tumor? Had Ben fucked her hard enough to dis _lodge_ a tumor? Did vampire cum _create_ tumors? Had she been full of tumors all along? She fell asleep with her phone in bed, sometimes. Her laptop, too. That had to be bad. Electronic poison, of a sort. Years and years of snoring next to YouTube videos of ASMR scrapbookers and Eurovision and today was the day she’d gone too far. What if—

A fearless knock. 

Unstartled, she turned to see Ben fill the doorway. 

For a split second, she saw him as Scott might: an enormous man, shoulders stretching from one side of the frame to the other. Black hair. A serious face—intensely dark eyes, a mouth unused to smiling, lips scarred from sharp fangs. Supernaturally strong, every limb wrapped in muscle that promised there was no point in running, that hiding was less than a joke. If he wanted, his body screamed, he had the power to take. 

Terrifying by almost any standard, but she felt not the smallest bit of fear. 

Scott hadn’t lived with him. He hadn’t seen Ben attack a stubborn stain with a dish rag or hide a hairy spider under a mug. No one but Rey could describe the enormity of his panic, how shame and apology wracked every limb when he thought he’d touched her without her permission. Scott hadn’t fucked him or felt him tremble with restraint. 

Ben sneezed obnoxiously loud. Had a damaging level of pride. He was a bit too judgmental when it came to National Geographic authors and his hands were very, wonderfully warm when they touched her skin. 

These thoughts lived and breathed and when they died, he still stood unmoving. Waiting for permission to enter. 

He had something in his hand. She was eyeing it when he sniffed, then visibly repressed a cough. 

“What happened in here?” he asked, almost fearfully. 

“Three guesses,” she said, “and the first two don’t count.”

His eyes bounced from the rumpled bedspread to the red, glittery curve of a forgotten butt plug to the darker patch of carpet near Rey’s feet. He slowly removed his hand from the doorframe. “Should I sterilize this?” he asked, holding it up. 

She nodded gravely. 

He rolled his shoulders in a jerky, inelegant motion. “I feel unclean.” 

It was too hard to suppress a smile. The thing inside her chest swelled with happiness when he smiled back. “There’s a shower through there,” she nodded, distracted anew. “Though I can’t guarantee you won’t see something horrific in the drain.” 

She could tell he weighed the odds, but he didn’t move an inch. “When’s Poe going to get a studio?”

“Who knows.” Rey left the window, side-stepping the worst of the stains until she joined him by the door. It felt nice to be near him. Nice enough that she searched and failed to find an acceptable excuse to hold his hand. Ridiculous. “Do studios have nicer showers?”

The fingers on his free hand spread and stretched, then relaxed. “Depends.”

“I’ve never been,” she admitted, though she often imagined. Was curious to know if they, too, stored spare lube in what was meant to be a pantry. “Not for lack of trying. I’ve tried to schedule tours on the off-chance Poe’d agree and realize that he needs to make changes. That he might _like_ changes, but…” she trailed off with a shrug. “He’s happy here. Claims to hate commuting.”

“Everyone hates commuting.” Ben’s gaze drifted to the bed. A wave of pain spasmed across his face. “I have those sheets.”

Interesting. “Have you always loved plaid?”

“I am now returning those sheets.”

“As is your right.” Something smelled good. “Did you bring yourself a snack?”

He stopped a glare-heavy inspection of the headboard. “No. It’s for you.” 

“Me?”

“Thought you might be hungry.” He held it out a chunky loaf of tinfoil. 

Gingerly, she took it. A burrito. Terribly wrapped but still warm. She peeled back the edge and found herself numbly saying, “Carnitas.”

“You won’t think it’s spicy enough. I’ve seen the way you abuse chili powder.” He seemed pleased, attentively watching as she took her first bite. “You’ll be happy to know I helped Scott ferret away the last of the pico. I could tell you didn’t agree with Rose.”

She hadn’t _said_ she disagreed with Rose, but perhaps she was easier to read than she thought. “I fed him, too,” she confessed. “He’s terrified of you, you know.”

“I know.”

“You said that far too cheerfully.”

“It’s his own hang up if he thinks I’d actually hurt him.”

“You did hiss at him.” 

“You were still bleeding. He got too close.”

Rey recalled her investigative Kylo-porn marathon. There had been plenty of close-ups of bloody, newly-bitten necks. But she kept that to herself. “Did you know that he has ten sisters?”

“Mm,” Ben hummed. “And one brother. We chatted at the burrito station.”

“You chatted,” she repeated, disbelieving. 

“I asked questions. He squeaked answers. Close enough.”

“Uh-huh.” They were still standing by the door. Rey’s feet had developed a sneaky habit of inching closer to Ben, and it wasn’t the worst of worst ideas—if she kept stepping forward, he kept standing still—but she wanted to enjoy her meal sitting down. “Come on. New venue,” she said, and walked toward the bed. 

He followed slowly, finally leaving the confines of the doorframe. An eyebrow arched when she boldly sat down on the mattress. “Exactly how many body fluids do you think you’re lounging in, right now?”

She flicked her wrist dismissively. “The sheets are fresh. It was an orgy with pixies, not lumberjacks. We only break out the plaid on special occasions. Or lazy ones, like this.”

“Since when is an orgy not special?” he asked, but it was clear he didn’t expect an answer. Gingerly, he joined her on the bed. 

Neither of them fidgeted. Maybe it should feel uncomfortable to sit clothed on a bed with a porn star, but the burrito really was distractingly delicious. Beyond any culinary excuse, she was honest enough to admit she’d miss him. What harm was there in soaking up the time that remained? Besides, she’d been meaning to ask about the taste of her bl— 

“Are you okay?”

Cheeks bulging, Rey felt her head tilt. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. Seems like a reasonable concern. I found you standing alone by a window in a room that smells like a cum rag. Well.” He took a shallow, inquisitive breath. “Mostly like a cum rag.”

“Mostly?”

“Ten percent regret. Or triumph. Or possibly triumphant regret.”

Swallowing what needed to be the last bite, Rey asked, “I thought you couldn’t smell emotion?” 

“Not in any way that matters. And don’t dodge.” 

Her stomach gurgled, unhappy with the meal’s interruption. “The room choice was an accident. I needed a place to process, but I’m—higher, please?” She’d started to unsuccessfully scratch an itch between her shoulder blades. Ben wordlessly took over, and it was blessed, toe-curling relief. “Thanks.”

“Welcome,” he said absently. “A place to process what? And how’s your neck?” His hand traveled from her back to her hair, parting it like a curtain until he could see for himself. Two of his fingers rubbed the skin, digging lightly into the muscle underneath. Checking for something unknown. “It’s not sore, is it?”

“Not sore.” Though she wouldn’t complain if he wanted to pretend otherwise. Maybe she could talk Rose into letting them exchange massages. That was romantic, right? Husbands did that for wives newly returned from work trips. She knew where Poe hid the good oil. “And nothing traumatic. I just had this strange feeling.” 

He didn’t stop rubbing, although he did slow down. “Where?”

“In my chest,” she said distractedly. “Could you—?” She turned, pulled her knees up onto the mattress, and shamelessly offered him her back. 

He obliged, but only after he pinched her side in payment. “Describe it.” 

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m starting to think that’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve tried. I’ve _been_ trying. The closest I’ve come will make you think I’m crazy.” 

The rubbing slowed again. “Say it anyway.”

He sounded oddly serious, so she puffed out a frustrated breath and made an attempt. “Like something’s woken up. That’s all I’ve got. And I can’t even point to it, is the stupidest thing. It’s not here—” she pointed over her heart, then to space between her tits, “—or here. It’s new and not new, all at once.”

She couldn’t describe his voice when he asked, “Do you hate it?”

“No,” she said slowly, after a moment. “Even though I probably should.” 

It was the truth, and she lost herself in it long enough to miss the exact moment he tugged on her robe, how he bodily turned her until they sat shoulder to shoulder again. With her first real second of awareness, she saw the depthless brown of his eyes. His mouth was working—opening slightly only to close—and the thing near her heart was wildly, brilliantly alive. 

She frowned, ready to ask Ben if _he_ was okay because he was palming his chest, fingers twisting in his shirt like they sought the skin beneath it, like something too deep to be touched begged for the comfort of his hand. 

And then it was obvious. 

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” she breathed, and Ben already knew, but she said it anyway: “I forgot about the bond.” 

_How_ she managed to forget was an impossible mystery. Before any of it—before Ben, before the forums, before Poe—she’d known the cost of fucking a vampire. Nothing permanent, she knew. Rarely a heavy burden. But inevitable. It had bloomed the second he’d bit her; only now did she figure it out. 

There really wasn’t an excuse beyond stupidity. 

Except. 

Of all the ways she’d expected it to feel, she’d never expected this. 

_Like a kernel’s gotten stuck between your teeth_ , she’d once read. _Like tonguing it only aggravates your gums and floss is a kind of torture. As soon as you forget about it, it comes back._

_Like you’re thirsty._ Their _kind of thirsty. And no water in the world helps._

_Like something you’ve known gets replaced with something you don’t._

_A papercut._

_A new, noisy tenant._

Not everyone complained, but Rey was a realist. She saw the honest side of porn on a daily basis: wizards who used growth charms clutching their shrinking ballsacks the second the spell wore off; the aftermath of being fisted by a goblin. Pixie cum was pretty until you had to clean it off eighteen different surfaces. Leshens _could_ sneeze out flowers, but mostly sneezed out hairy, belligerent beetles. 

So while she didn’t expect something horrible, she _did_ expect something mildly unpleasant. And this wasn’t it. 

It was still too new to be fully understood, but naming it had given her answers. She wasn’t feeling _something_ in her chest. She felt Ben. Or a connection to him, at the very least. 

Concentrating, armed with new clarity, it was easier to describe. 

It was like she’d been lost without knowing it—moving forward, but blindly. And between one step and the next, someone had taken her hand. 

And he didn’t have a light or a map. He wasn’t dragging her to a destination she’d been too ignorant to find. He was lost, too, but that was okay because now they were lost together. 

There was peace, in knowing that. And with all things newly cherished, a fear. 

After all, what was had could be lost. 

Ben still hadn’t spoken. 

The bond didn’t offer any magical insight into his mind. She could only grasp the very roughest shape of his thoughts—that he was nervous, most of all. She knew it like she knew her own name, even though his hands had stopped fidgeting and his face was seemingly peaceful. 

She wanted to take his hand, so she did. “Did Rose say when we had to be back?”

It took him a moment to find his words. His eyes traced the places where she touched him. “I...might have promised we’d be back ten minutes ago.” 

“That’s unfortunate.” She examined his hand with both of hers, idly tracing the skin of a knuckle, the meat of his palm. He let her. “I think I’d like to stay a little longer.”

“So we’ll stay a little longer,” he said. And they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to write this author's note for the past five minutes and I'm struggling. Every time I try to thank you for your kindness, understanding, and support, I end up sounding like a Hallmark card or a pre-programmed robot. Please know that every single message you sent meant something to me. So many of you reached out to ask if I was okay, and I'm infinitely grateful. I can't say things are smooth, but they're smoother. <3
> 
> Thank you for being so patient with me! 
> 
> If you'd like to come say hi on Twitter, I'm [@talltig](https://twitter.com/talltig).


	12. Chapter 12

By the time they shuffled back on set, Rose was thoroughly unimpressed.

The spritzer of garlic water had finally been unearthed. It sat in a place of honor on the bookshelf, unknowingly nestled between a copy of Oliver Twist and a hardbound book of werewolf poetry. Someone had taken the liberty of decorating the bottle with sparkly, attention-getting stars. 

Ben glared, his fingers twitching their intent. 

Before he could do something monumentally stupid, Rey diverted his attention by means of grabbing his dick. 

“Ready?” she asked, and tried not to preen when he immediately swelled in her hand. She kept it there, idly stroking, entranced with the way the bond purred. She could _feel_ his reaction—his hips slowly started to rock, but there was also a faint, phantom echo of pleasure in her own chest. 

_I like that very much_ , it said. _Keep going._

Cruelly, she didn’t. As darkly curious as she was to learn what happened when Ben took a garlic shower, she feared bloodshed of the unfun sort if they ignored the new schedule. She’d once seen Rose cube an aubergine with a dull butter knife; Rey shuddered to imagine what she could accomplish with a clipboard. 

In the interest of preventing rage-induced castration, Rey snatched her hand away just before Ben trapped it with his own. 

“C’mon,” she said, smiling as she shuffled backward. His hand hovered above his dick. “Help me change the sheets.”

Ben tracked her with a predator’s focus, the whites of his eyes already muddying into something darker. He didn’t move. In an overly blatant attempt to entice him into action, Rey arched her neck and pretended to rub away soreness that didn’t exist. There wasn’t a scar where he’d bitten her—not even the smallest of lumps—but she didn’t need physical proof to remember how it had felt. She stole a glance at his mouth and maybe he was imagining the same thing: his fangs had already started to descend—short, still, but thick. _How had they fit?_ she wondered.

She’d had shots at the doctor’s office. She’d been stung outdoors, even pierced her own ears at a truck stop. Ben’s teeth were far from the first thing that had punctured her skin, but they were easily the biggest. Even a careful bite should have left her neck ravaged, but—her fingers rubbed again, to confirm—all she had was her memory. 

Deep. They must have gone so deep. It should have been painful—even the _thought_ of it should have been painful, but it had felt so strangely right. Necessary. 

Another peek. Faint red had joined the black of his eyes. 

He’d bite her again. They had to fix their fuck-up. The schedule was back, their newly plotted scenes written in a fat, chiseled marker. She hadn’t had a chance to check, but another neck bite wouldn’t be the only thing they filmed. He’d sink his fangs elsewhere, too. 

Would it feel the same? There had been a building heat, before—a pleasure that built to something almost intolerable. His lips had latched and he’d sucked and she’d felt every draw. Remembered the redness of his mouth afterwards. They’d have to make it bloodier, this go around. How much would he let drip onto the sheets? Would she taste it this time, when they kissed? Would he— 

Something smacked her ass. She yelped out of surprise, turning to face the full brunt of Rose’s frown. 

“Enough,” Rose growled, letting the rolled magazine uncurl. “You’re going to give yourself a neck cramp. I am here to assure you that you looked at least eight times less alluring than you’d hoped.” 

Part of Rey wanted to protest—did Rose think that Ben’s eyes changed for no reason at all?—but she didn’t. Instead she muttered, “Those are not the words of an encouraging director.”

“Correct.” Rose turned, grabbing a set of sheets from Scott’s outstretched hands. She shook one out, then nodded for Rey to take the opposite end. “They are the words of a director who wants to be home in time for The Bachelor. The window for encouragement closed somewhere around impromptu boob fingerpainting. Now help.” 

Rey helped.

She studiously didn’t look at Ben. She knew he was watching, though, and a very ancient voice tied to self-preservation bleated at her not to run. It wasn’t hard: Rose’s instructions demanded all of her attention. 

They’d pretend the fucking never happened. Ben’s oral needed a few reshoots, then they’d take things slow—Rey play-biting any skin Ben offered up, mutual light edging, whatever dirty talk came to mind. They’d save the “first” bite for her neck again, and then her thigh if they felt lucky. It was assumed that Ben would have better control, but they’d stop frequently to curb any rising temptation.

By the time the bed was properly outfitted, Ben had wandered over to the bookshelf. In between turning pages (Rey couldn’t see the title, only that Ben’s hands made it look astoundingly small), he rubbed his lips, massaging his hidden teeth. She wondered if they ached. 

Tidying the bed didn’t take long. Soon enough, Rey found herself prepping in front of a mirror. Hair rumpled to an approximation of what it had looked like post-blowjob, clothes suitably mussed and makeup reapplied, the shoot resumed.

It was and wasn’t the same. 

Having already fed, Ben’s eyes were not so quick to fully turn. They eventually did, but their blackness contained far more intelligent desire. Less like a demon still cindery-fresh and more like one who grilled a mean trout. Not necessarily domesticated, but flirting with the distant edge of normal. 

He was not quite as twitchy as before. When Rey left to fetch a new bra (Ben kept snagging holes in the lace with his teeth), she returned to see Scott bewilderedly sharing his opinion on toast. 

“My mother told me to avoid gluten,” he said slowly, eyeing Ben’s hands like they might at any moment trade their water bottle for his neck. 

“Your mother,” Ben declared, “has obviously never eaten freshly-baked focaccia. Do you live around here?” 

“I—” Ben took a drink, and Scott watched in a kind of paralytic awe. Rey was reminded of her professor’s poodle, the one who anxiety-peed when he saw any rock larger than its head. “I think so.” 

Ben raised an eyebrow, but let the answer slide. “Then visit Vitale’s on Chestnut. Get there early. If the line’s already past the blood bank, you’ve waited too long. Grab a loaf of sourdough, don’t look Vitale in the eye, then haul ass to the butcher shop on—do you need a pen?”

“I like pencils,” Scott said, somewhat dazed.

“Then _grab_ one,” Ben growled. “I don’t trust your memory.” 

Rey fully expected the sex to be different. Not only was Rose nigh-militant about their revised schedule, but first fucks had a way of smudging memory. Emotions were high. Nervousness and excitement made a potent cocktail that usually resulted in exaggeration. Water bottles might look comically miniature in Ben’s hands, but surely she’d imagined how his palm spanned the entire width of her stomach. Surely that rising, consuming fire was a one-off experience; surely his choked groans were artificial, her happiness to hold and be held a fuck-addled fantasy. 

It _was_ different (far less rule-breaking, far more pauses for hairspray), but too many things were already familiar. 

His dick was unchanged, of course. If he hadn’t already fucked her, she might have struggled to believe it could be done. When he finally did—slower and far showier than their first—she caught herself sighing in relief. He noticed, and Rey very kindly ignored the smug fondness in his grin.

Even semi-sated on blood, he still struggled to deny himself for the cameras. Scott’s fingers trembled when he approached with the handheld and Ben didn’t hiss, didn’t even break the stride of his thrusts, but his displeasure felt like a colony of angry wasps buzzing unhappily beneath her skin. 

“Manners,” she reminded him, and nipped at his shoulder.

It had always been the case, but she’d forgotten how tiring it was, to film. How physically demanding it could be to perform for hours on end. Rey took care of her body, but no amount of cardio made it easier to survive edging. 

“You’re beastly,” she panted, rubbing her face in the cleanest of the pillows because maybe the friction there would help her forget what wasn’t getting the attention it deserved. “My cunt wishes to file a formal complaint. Tell Scott to fetch the paperwork.”

Ben’s hum was a vibration against the meat of her thigh. It made her shiver. He lifted his head, but she shut her eyes before she could see his expression. “What’s the complaint, exactly?” 

“Stop grinning.” She could _hear_ it. "And neglect."

"I've been the opposite of inattentive." As if to prove it, he stroked her clit with the back of a knuckle, soothing it like it'd caught a fever. She hissed and tried to buck, but his hold was unbreakable. "So I’ll admit I’m confused. Could you elaborate?"

“Throbbing," Rey managed, craning her head to assess the situation. Never before had it taken so long to change one measly bulb. She swallowed a wail of despair to see that Rose had taken a phone call. "There is an excessive amount of throbbing." 

"Sounds like the symptom of _too_ much attention."

"I don't have the brainpower to argue, but please know that you're wrong."

"Does it ache?" he asked, too innocent. 

She ground her teeth. "Yes." Saying it only reminded her how much. Experience said touching herself would be nothing but a greater torment, but maybe just for a second? Two seconds. Three seconds of relief, and then she could bear the agony until they finished the scene. 

"Don't."

"I didn't do anything," she snapped. 

"Your hand twitched. You're squirming. You’re also,” his eyes dipped down, “clenching in a very telling place.” 

“Maybe I have an itch.”

“If that’s the case, then you know it’s not a good idea to scratch.” 

“Why not?” she asked, decidedly _not_ pouting. She hated when the actors whined. This was their job. They signed their contract and they stripped their clothes and they fucked because they were paid good money to do it—oftentimes because they _liked_ to do it, and Rey always found a reason to leave the room when they complained. The sun rose and fell, the tides turned, and porn stars couldn’t come when they pleased. It was part and parcel of the job and while she rationally knew why they protested, it always struck her as unprofessional. 

She wasn’t ignorant to their torment. She’d been on shoots before—she’d enjoyed the attention of men reptilian enough to wield interesting tongues. Each time followed a semi-predictable pattern: she was licked wet enough for things to get interesting, she moaned breathless words of praise as she privately wondered where she’d put her BOGO Haagen-Daz, and then she ruthlessly conquered her body’s disappointment when it all ended prematurely. If she ached, whatever post-lick conversation took place was enough to kill it. It was hard to stay aroused when your partner wanted to swap tips on ingrown hair removal. 

But this was far from the same. 

There were no breaks. No chances to catch her breath. Beyond his wealth of professional experience, Ben was an adept learner. The bond only made things easier. It was impossible to hide what she liked or how much she liked it. Instead of the restful valleys of conversation she was used to, Ben kept her on a perpetual climb. 

“You know,” she babbled, thinking out loud, “I changed my mind. I think me coming will harm no one at all.” 

“Those sound like the words of a desperate woman.”

Possibly. Quickly, she promised, “I can fake it. I’ve faked it before. Rose will never know.”

“Rose _will_ know,” he disagreed, though he did slide a finger through newly escaped wetness. “You’re too loud. Two seconds into it and she’d—why are you covering your ears?” 

“Your ego is howling and I don’t have earplugs.” 

Ben rolled his eyes. “If you don’t believe me, ask Scott. He winced when I bit you.”

“That’s because he’s scared of your teeth. It had nothing to do with my vocal cords. Also, let’s stop pretending that you aren’t interested in my offer. You keep touching me.”

“I like touching you.” He said it in a way that suggested he didn’t intend to stop and deny himself the pleasure. The bond pulsed warmly. “And what’s your offer, specifically?”

“Show mercy. Show kindness. Let me cum.” She was already so close. It would take nothing to fling herself over the edge and blissfully fall. If Ben wasn’t interested in participating, she had fingers of her own—just one decent rub and this terrible, agonizing tension would explode away. She could do it. She had a _right_ to do it and after all, Ben was being terribly unhelpful. 

They were almost done. What Rose intended to use as the final shot had been wrapped up two scenes ago. They’d already filmed her oral twice, but they’d reviewed the footage together and Ben had been the one to point out shadows that Finn would be hard-pressed to edit. Rose agreed, and since they were otherwise surprisingly ahead of schedule, they decided to reshoot _and_ attempt the leg bite. Ben had edged her the second time, but seemed determined to outdo himself on the third. 

He was deeply committed to doing exactly what her body enjoyed. To what she didn’t _realize_ she enjoyed. Hard, intense attention until she panted; torturously slow, deliberate touches to keep her riding the high. She moaned. She clawed at the sheets. She creatively begged. Rose had shot her half a dozen thumbs-up since the start; Rey didn’t have the heart to admit she wasn’t acting. 

Ben’s interest didn’t seem artificial, either. Then again, plenty of porn stars took pleasure in their profession. 

The bed squeaked when Ben settled down onto his forearms. He hummed thoughtfully. “Have you prepared a reasonable argument?” 

She goggled. “Logic. _Logic_ is my argument.”

“Logic is a word, not an argument.”

“Logically,” she gritted, “you’ve been teasing me for eight years.”

He sighed as if disappointed. “You’re better than hyperbole. Try again.” 

“Believe it or not, it’s hard to focus when you’re doing that.” She tried to rock her hips away from his thumbs, but they went about their business undisturbed—parting her lips, petting, intently inspecting for something she couldn’t name. Her leg started to twitch. Desperately, she asked, “Are you seriously saying no?”

His eyes never left their prize. At least they looked appreciative. “Don’t you think we’ve pissed off Rose enough for one day? Besides,” he ducked down to deliver a fat, mind-splintering lick, “authentic desperation looks good on screen. I’ve never heard someone yelp so fetchingly.” 

She tried to kick him. He laughed. 

Growling, she said, “If I’d known you were going to be this smarmy in bed, I would never have let you have the last taco. And fine. If I can’t cum, the least you can do is suspend the torture. My cunt is closed until further notice. Please depart the premises.” 

He clearly thought she was joking. Even had the gall to grin until she sat up. Seeing the confused scrunch of his brow was satisfying in a way that managed to briefly eclipse the throbbing. “Wait.”

She scooted to the headboard, shaking her head. “Closed.”

Rey remembered picking out the mattress. It was huge, bought with threesomes and hefty trolls in mind. Ben was nowhere close to the biggest man who’d ever graced its sheets, but Rey suspected that no amount of distance would make him feel far away. He loomed, even on his belly. 

It was harder to read emotion through blacked-out eyes, but a word came to mind when his gaze dipped to her cunt. 

_Want_. 

She couldn’t close her legs. Not only would the pressure make things worse, but it was too intoxicating to witness Ben’s hungry stare. Another dribble of slick escaped when she clenched. The temptation to touch herself ratched higher and she hated that Ben was right: there was no faking how she felt. They’d already started to film and continuity mattered—all the suffering she’d already endured would be for naught if she fucked it up now. Although…

She forced herself to look beyond the rise of Ben’s shoulders. Rose, clearly off her phone, raised an eyebrow. _Took you long enough_ , the arch clearly said, which wasn’t the same thing as _Stop._

Interesting.

It wasn’t wise to assume, so Rey opened her legs a little wider. Experimentally. 

Two things happened at once: Ben’s breath escaped in a labored huff, and Rose hit record. A small red light started to blink. Unspoken permission to see if they could blaze a trail worth following. 

Ben’s compliance was the only variable. Rey didn’t have high expectations, but there was always a chance. 

Best to start small. She rocked her hips, hissing involuntarily when the tension spiked. Ben inched closer, not stopping until she pushed against his shoulder with her foot. It was obvious what he wanted, so it didn’t feel too risky to call him out. “You know, I think we got it wrong. I think _you’re_ the one who needs to argue.”

“Argue,” he repeated, clearly not understanding. His voice was already thicker. 

“I think you’d like to touch me. Maybe you need to convince me why I should let that happen.” She waited a beat before she added, “Husband.” 

The pressure against her foot eased for just a moment. He’d heard, but she wasn’t sure if he understood. His tongue slowly rubbed against the sharp point of a fang before he grumbled, “You’ve been gone for a week.” 

She had to concentrate not to smile. “Seven days, and you still couldn’t bring yourself to do the dishes.”

“I was protesting. You know I hate that soap.”

“And you know I’m not paying ten dollars to indulge your bougie lifestyle. Use Dawn like everyone else.”

He chewed on that, eyes dipping down once more, and Rey risked another quick glance at Rose. The camera obscured her face, but Rey could read her wrist flick just fine: _You guys are absurd, but keep going._

Ben twisted his head to give her ankle a small nip. He must have liked it: he immediately did it again, fitting his teeth against the meatier arch of her foot, clamping gently. “I missed you,” he said, soap forgotten, and she could feel the slick hint of his tongue. 

“Missed me,” she repeated, because she liked the way it sounded. When she teasingly pushed against his shoulder, he didn’t budge. “Were you lonely?”

“Yes.”

“We talked every day.”

“Not the same.”

So stupid, to feel that zinging thrill of pleasure in her gut. This was fake. She was not his wife; he was not her husband. She was a graduate student with a pitiful bank account, not an architect successful enough to warrant a week-long business trip. She shouldn’t find it so easy to pretend. “I checked the pantry, by the way. You barely touched the groceries.”

He gripped her calf, guiding her foot off his shoulder until it touched the bed. “I didn’t want food.” 

“There were blood bags in the fridge.”

Disgust curled his lip. “Don’t like them.”

“Spoiled.” She tempered the word with a caress—he’d crawled closer still, near enough that she could touch his face. Her thumb traced the fullness of his lips. “I take it you’re hungry. Is that your argument?” 

He kissed the pad of her thumb. It seemed like the only answer he was interested in giving. 

The ache had never ceased. For the sake of whatever scene they were trying to accomplish, she tried to forget it long enough to say, “I’ve already fed you.”

“Want more.” 

In a different frame of mind, she could have laughed. Five minutes ago and he’d taken such leisurely, calm joy in teasing her to madness. It was satisfying to see him push closer, to catch the smaller tells of his hunger. Rey couldn’t pretend to understand how a vampire’s appetite really worked—by all rights he should be full—but his hands kept seeking the places where her blood thumped the hardest. The thin skin of her wrists. Her neck. He seemed especially interested in her thigh. Small dots of red already dotted his chin; she’d learned that he bit himself when his focus waned. 

More, he said. They were almost there. 

Ben’s lips met her knee. His eyes closed as he gave a sharp suck and it didn’t matter that she’d once drunkenly proclaimed knees to be as arousing as a cable bill—she still squirmed. “Maybe I’m not convinced you deserve it.” His eyes immediately rose and locked with hers. Accusatory. His mouth stayed busy. “I think you broke the rules while I was gone.” 

No answer, and it took her a moment to realize why. He had no clue what she meant. 

Neither did she, but the red light continued to blink. Her mind raced. She stalled by grabbing his hair, lifting firmly until he paid attention. “Did you touch yourself?”

Low and unamused: “No.”

She tugged a little harder. He let her, flashing his fangs with a soft hiss. “Are you sure? Your hand was on your dick when I walked through the door. Incriminating, wouldn’t you say?”

Bless him. He dropped his gaze, jaw tensing. The perfect picture of grudging guilt. “That was the only time.”

She hummed, letting the fantasy bloom vivid in her mind. She pictured herself packing a bag as Ben glowered by the closet. Listening to instructions he didn’t always follow. He would never find it easy to be good. “I know how hard it is for you,” she said. “To wait.” 

“I hate it,” he admitted, a deep growl. 

And he would, wouldn’t he? She imagined the bounce of a plane’s rough landing in a strange city, thumbing through messages as they taxied to the gate. Seeing the pictures he’d already sent. The proof she expected every day. He’d never send them at the same time and never from the same place—their bedroom, among the heap of blankets on their couch, the backseat of his car. She’d peek at them in between meetings. At night, cold in a unfamiliar bed, she’d send some of her own. 

She felt new slick escape. Had to clear her throat to say, “I thought you liked denying yourself.”

“Not from you.”

It shouldn’t rob her of thought. 

Sensing weakness, he nudged her shoulder with the top of his head. “Down,” he ordered. When she didn’t move, stubborn, he kissed the swell of her breast. Caressed the curve with the back of his hand. She could feel the wet heat of his breath on her nipple when he asked, “I was good. Won’t you keep your promise?” 

Tipping backward, she caught herself on her forearms. “What promise is that?” 

“You said you’d let me take care of you.” He made a sound of approval when she finally fell prone, her back on the mattress. “Don’t you remember? There was a priest there and everything. You wore a very pretty white dress.”

Breathlessly, she said, “You _tore_ that pretty dress.” 

“Fangs are sharp. And I wanted what it was hiding.”

How did this happen? She watched as he spread her legs to his liking and settled between them, hupping her closer with one easy, solid jerk. With the rapidly dwindling part of her brain that cared, she knew Rose had moved—the camera was a bulky blur on her right; Scott disappeared and reappeared too quickly to trace. Following orders, Rey guessed. 

Ben licked her again and it was _filthy_ , how sloppy wet she’d become. “Fuck,” he bit out, and she knew if she looked his chin would be soaked, his lips swollen-plump. 

Her mind fractured. She was on a set. In a bed. She was being filmed and she was elsewhere all at once. Ben made filthy promises in between kitten licks and her eyes were closed, she couldn’t see his fangs but she felt them—light, delicate scratches on her lips, the sensitive skin of her thighs. 

Amazing, she thought, that she’d spent her whole life having blood and veins and arteries without really realizing their worth. 

A hard bite—not enough to pierce but only just. Ben’s ragged groan made her fist the sheets and she was begging unabashedly loud, her spine arching, Ben’s voice gone inhuman— _my fucking beautiful wife, letting me drink from her perfect fucking cunt_ —and the bright lights dimmed behind her closed eyelids because that feeling was back, the heat was rising and he was going to do it, going to bite her, and how could this be the last time? 

“I have to,” he slurred, “I have to. Will you let me? You taste so—”

“Yes,” she gasped, and it wasn’t sexy how she twisted on the bed. It was too artless, it couldn’t be what Rose wanted but Rey didn’t care, didn’t care, didn’t care.

She came before the first drop of blood touched his lips. 

His fingers were inside, thick and pumping, but she wouldn’t have needed them. Porn stars were supposed to be loud, she was meant to _howl_ but the orgasm stole her breath instead. She could only manage hitching snatches of air and the low, deep animal sound couldn’t possibly be from her own chest, but Ben was making noises of his own—grunts and senseless words until he found what he wanted and bit. 

It was a sharp, deadly point of pleasure. All-consuming. The pleasure doubled and redoubled again until she was lost to it, fingers clawing into the mattress, lungs desperate for air because breathing felt secondary to survival. 

He held her thigh as he drank, mumbling words she couldn’t hear. When she had the strength to look, she saw a mess of red—small streaks that escaped the latch of his lips, smudged patches of pink where he’d adjusted his grip. The ripping pleasure of her orgasm had begun to fade into something sweeter: a warm, soothing blanket instead of a scorching heat. And maybe it should have been strange to see Ben’s scrunched brow or to hear his loud sucks, but she could only muster up a bemused sort of affection. 

There was a new sensation creeping in on her growing awareness. Something that ticked up the corner of her mouth. 

Ben’s hips had started to rock against the mattress. _Has he cum?_ was immediately replaced with a sharper, more urgent thought because she _knew_ now. She knew that feeling.

Ticklish. It tickled. 

She tried to think of anything else. The visual of his broad back slicked with sweat. The way his jaw worked as he swallowed, the faint pressure of his tongue as it swept up the blood. She focused on these things desperately hoping her leg would stop twitching and he’d finish quickly, that he’d _especially_ stop sucking because she was holding her breath but the itch grew and grew and sooner or later she wouldn’t be able to swallow the squeaks or the bubble of laughter trapped in her throat. 

She was good. Spectacular. She had it under control. 

Until he bit again.

—

As pretty as the day had looked from the shelter of Poe’s house, it was deceptively hot. Rey’s car had never been overly keen on coughing out cold air, so she made due with open windows and unwavering faith in her deodorant. If she felt bold enough to open up Lyft, her customers were forced to behold her bevvy of battery-operated fans. She’d yet to hear a complaint, but it was an admittedly inelegant solution. 

Ben hadn’t complained either, but he’d eyed a fan with such abject longing that Rey sighed, unclipped it, and tossed it to him at a stoplight. It had stayed roughly two inches from his face ever since. 

The shoot was finished. Complete. Poe’s initial proposal felt like a memory old enough to collect dust. A week ago she hadn’t known Ben’s name; now she knew he hiccupped when she tickled his feet. 

Speaking of. 

“How’s your head?”

“Concussed.”

Her GPS chirped. She made a left down a tree-lined street. “You were given multiple warnings. Also, you’re being dramatic.”

“You have extraordinarily bony knees.” He gave his temple a gentle poke, wincing. “I think I have a fracture.”

“The only thing that’s fractured is your ego.”

“I remain unconvinced that you didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Believe what you want,” she said distractedly. That was the _third_ lemonade stand she’d seen in two blocks. If she saw a fourth, she was pulling over. Some temptations were too great to bear. “Are you sure you gave me the correct address? This looks like a neighborhood. Sort of an unconventional place to run an auto shop.”

A snort. “If he knew you said that, he’d be honored.” Then, “Why are you frowning?”

“Because I just realized I know nothing about my mechanic. I’m trying to decide if that makes me a terrible person.”

“I’ll make it easy for you.” He leaned across the center console. “No.”

“I think his name’s John. He only works on Tuesdays. Last time he was concerned about the number of zip ties under the hood.”

“Am I allowed to ask if there are _still_ zip ties under your hood?”

“You may,” she said, turning down a new street. “But I reserve the right not to answer.”

Ben refrained. 

In the quiet that followed, the voice she’d managed to smother finally cleared its metaphorical throat. 

_This is it, you know. The end of your vampire adventure. You’re not driving him to your apartment. You’re driving him to his car. Because he needs it to drive home. Because he’s driving home. To a home that is not here._

Poe had offered. He’d shown up shortly after they’d taken their respective showers. Ben’s hair had still been wet, the tips of his ears poking up through the dark strands. Rey had tried not to stare as Rose regaled their boss with a very censored recap of the day’s events: yes, they’d filmed it all; yes, Poe would make bank; no, she would not care to work with smarmy vampires in the near future. 

Rey hadn’t joined Poe at the screen, but he must have liked the raw footage. “You’ll break the site,” he said cheerily, clapping a hand on Ben’s shoulder that was immediately shrugged off. “You two were magic. I’m a genius.”

Privately, Rey disagreed. Geniuses didn’t feed their goblins five alarm chili the night before an anal gang bang. 

Staying quiet was easier. Easier than starting an argument Poe would expertly sidestep. Far easier than acknowledging anything that had to do with the shoot, the days before it, or the vampire leisurely manspreading on the couch. 

She didn’t regret agreeing to film. Her silence had nothing to do with shame and everything to do with what she had continued to masterfully maintain through the present moment: a state of ignorance. 

Rey _felt_ things about Ben. Normal things. Who wouldn’t feel grateful for a well-lubed doorknob or a stocked fridge? She would have spent hours YouTubing ceiling light repairs; Ben fixed it in an afternoon. Anyone would be moved. Anyone would feel thankful. Arguably, it was even understandable to feel minor affection. 

It was far less understandable to feel like she was falling in love. 

Of all the notions her brain had ever entertained, it was by far the most ridiculous. Rey was practical. She grocery shopped based on sales, not her tastebuds. She made her own coffee. She listened with a sympathetic ear when her classmate bitched about online dating, but was it really that shocking that Blake the shirtless project manager wasn’t interested in commitment? One barbed wire tattoo could be construed as an accident; three was disturbingly intentional. 

She pictured herself talking to Finn. _Hi, so, you know that beefy vampire humping me across the mattress? I used to think I liked him, but somewhere between driving him back to my apartment and kneeing him in the skull I might have developed feelings. More-than-friends feelings. Why-don’t-you-stick-around feelings. I’m aware it’s crazy. But in my defense, you know I’m weak for breakfast food. He says he makes a good quiche._

Once he realized she was serious, Finn would share some choice words—all of them a variation on the sentiment _absolutely not_.

Not that she needed Finn’s confirmation. Liking Ben—much less suspecting she could _love_ him—was inadvisable. She could recite the list of reasons why all by herself. 

She’d known him less than a week. He didn’t live in town. Poe had told him to prep for a passionate scene; all of their apartment bonding could be chalked up to a commitment to professionalism. Sexual method acting. Above all, she couldn’t dismiss the bite-bond. She’d never experienced one before—odds were that it had clouded her judgment. 

Stupid. All of it. 

Ben was leaving. She was driving him to his car. They had made a surprisingly good team and she’d miss him, but nothing beyond that was worth acknowledging. 

She cleared her throat, determined to spend their last minutes discussing something normal. “What are your thoughts on plastic fangs?”

“That if one more Normie tries to rebrand them as teeth condoms, I’m going to end up on the news.”

“Inherently, though. Do you find them offensive? Inoffensive?”

“I don’t care what people put in their mouths.” 

“I think you should care a _little_ bit,” she reasoned. “Imagine if your co-star licked a habanero right before they sucked you off.”

“And it wasn’t in the script? That’s the kind of deception that gets you fired. No one likes that brand of chaos.” He scratched his chin, ponderous. “Except demons. They’d probably ask you to do it again.”

“I’ve never fucked a demon,” she admitted, and pretended not to see the next direction on her GPS. It chirped its displeasure, rerouting. “I once fucked a guy who claimed to have some seraph blood, though.”

“Oh? Did he insist on praying at the altar of your cunt?”

“No, but he did hum hallelujah when he came. However,” she made another unprompted right turn, “I maintain that was accidental.”

“How does one accidentally vocalize hallelujah?”

“It was Christmastime and my apartment smelled like spruce. I think he was overcome.”

Something small and buzzing had flown into the car at their first stop-light. It had disappeared into the void of her backseat, but now preened on the far end of her dashboard, flexing its wings in the sunshine. Rey squinted, investigating. It was either a demonically large dragonfly or a sprite, and only one of them liked biting noses in revenge. 

The GPS sounded distressed. She ignored it as long as she could, but their destination was imminent. The suburban auto-shop. It still begged questions. 

“Have you considered buying a new car?”

Ben must have forgotten he was holding a fan; it _zrrp’d_ when he turned his head, smacking the foam blades against his chin. “Fuck me,” he snapped, biting once at the air. “Why would you ask that?”

“You seem like you know your mechanic. Don’t know how that’s possible unless you’re there on a regular basis.” 

He suddenly seemed very interested in the probably-a-dragonfly fluttering by the useless vent. “Offense absolutely intended, but I try to avoid getting to the zip-tie stage of disrepair.” Rey flicked a spare hair tie at his neck, growling when he neatly dodged. “Regular maintenance is important. Plus, he misses the car.”

“Whatever you drive can’t be _that_ wonderful.”

Ben waited just long enough to answer that Rey noticed his sigh. It sounded resigned. “It used to be his, actually. Gifted it to me on my sixteenth birthday.” Before her brain could piece together the easy puzzle, he confessed, “He’s my dad.”

“You didn’t think that was worth mentioning?” She was curious, not angry. 

He shrugged, finally clicking off the fan. “Didn’t come up and then it felt weird to admit. It’s not a secret, though. I’m surprised Poe didn’t say anything. He takes his cars here, too.” 

Here, he said, because they’d finally arrived. 

Rey had never seen such an oversized driveway. If there was a proper yard, she couldn’t find it. Every square inch of earth was covered up by grease-stained concrete and cars in various stages of disrepair. Someone had clearly tried to counterbalance the aesthetic by cramming the porch with plants. Rey recognized petunias and sunpatiens, but there were too many others to name. It was a sea of green and exploding color. 

She pulled into the only free space, blindly throwing her car into park. There was so much to see. 

Ben undid his seatbelt. Her reaction must have been typical. Somehow, she knew his silence was practiced. 

Cars. Trucks. _Pieces_ of trucks. Vans with plastic sheeting over missing doors. The first thing Rey could think to say was, “Their neighbors are cool with—?” She weakly gestured at the view, not knowing the right word. “No judgement, but this looks...so far from legal.”

A soft scoff. “Rule-breaking is one of Han’s more finely honed skills. Think I was four the first time he tried to teach me that anything’s possible with the right bribe. All I wanted was a cookie.”

Rey tried to imagine what kind of bribery convinced anyone to excuse so much rusty chrome. “Why doesn’t he just open up a regular shop?”

“The simple answer is that that would be too easy. A different one would be that he doesn’t want that much public attention.”

She frowned. “What about fixing cars is worth hiding?”

“ _How_ he fixes them, mainly.” Rey’s heart kickstarted when Ben turned to reach into the backseat. He snagged his bag’s handle and spoke as he hefted it onto his lap. “Tons of illegal modifications. Just because merpeople can magick themselves a pair of feet doesn’t mean they want to drive with them.”

Rey’s eyes widened. Brake pedals designed to work with fins? Driver seats immersed in saltwater? It was hard to fathom. “Did he teach you?”

“He tried. I know my way around an engine, but I couldn’t ever do what he does.”

“Not interested?”

“Not as interested, no. But also not as capable. He’s…” Ben stopped fiddling with the zipper of his bag, slightly cocking his head as he chose his words. “We don’t know what he is. He never knew his parents, but they had to be something supernatural. I inherited a bit of his magic, but nowhere near enough to do what he does. I take after my mother.” 

It felt wrong, to not know these things. Even wronger still to learn them just before they said goodbye. “Your mother’s a vampire?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Old bloodline.”

The weight of the following moment felt physical. Rey immediately found it necessary to inspect the stitching on her steering wheel. Ben’s hand didn’t reach for the door. Neither of them spoke. 

Rey had very firm opinions about farewells—namely, that they were worth avoiding. She was self-aware enough to know why. Part of her almost preferred her parents’ approach. _Not_ knowing why someone left was somehow more tolerable than the alternative. Answers didn’t always bring comfort. 

She knew why Ben had to leave. He’d had a job and now that job was finished. He wasn’t leaving because he hated her; he wasn’t leaving out of spite or because of something she’d said. His leaving had nothing to do with her at all. She had no right to take it personally. They didn’t have a future.

 _But you could_ , something whispered. _You could if you asked._

Rey’s chest was a terrible, confusing mess of knots. They constricted—a small pulse of pain—and before it could happen again she blurted, “What’s the protocol?”

Ben’s keys quieted. He’d been turning them over in his hands. “What?”

“For this. Saying goodbye.”

He blinked at her. “Well,” he said slowly, “it depends what you want.” 

_I want you to stay,_ she thought wildly. _I want you to help me eat all the food in my kitchen. I want to hear more about your family and sit in the front seat of your car. I’d like to fuck you in my own bed—no cameras, no script. Just us. I want stop wishing for things I can’t have._

“Talk, Rey.”

She wasn’t sure if she could. She wasn’t sure of anything except that she didn’t want to do this, wasn’t capable of sitting in the car with him knowing he was getting ready to leave it for good. 

“Do you need me to decide?” he asked, and the bond was a writhing mix of bafflement and concern. 

Rey opened her mouth, then shut it. Then nodded. 

Ben nodded, too. “Okay. You’re going to stop choking your steering wheel. I’m going to give you my number and you’re going to text me when you get home so I can stop visualizing what happens when a zip tie breaks on the highway. You’re also not going to panic when a strange mechanic calls you about fixing your engine. With me so far?” 

“Yeah,” she mumbled, but he didn’t go on. Before she could steel herself to ask what he was waiting for, he gave a single, firm tap to the back of her hand. Sighing, she let them drop to her lap. 

“Thank you. So I can’t pretend to know what’s going on inside your head, but I’d be an idiot not to realize you hate goodbyes.” She stiffened at that, but the cadence of his voice didn’t change. He continued on, just as calmly. “We’re going to pretend we’ve done this before. My car’s in the shop. My dad kept it for three days, which means we’re going to fight about the six new mods he installed without my permission. My mother will insist on feeding me a terribly cooked dinner that I will not critique. By the time I get home, you’ll be asleep. Whether or not you leave a sparkly dildo on the floor is up to you.”

As if she’d touch one in the foreseeable future. It was a pleasant, fulfilling sort of ache that she felt between her legs, but an ache all the same. Still—the way he said it made her want to smile. 

He wasn’t finished. “You’ll be asleep, but I’ll text you anyway. A complaint of some kind. I fucking hate two-lane interstates and I hate them even more when I’m hungry.”

She hadn’t planned on interrupting, but: “Didn’t you say your mom cooked you dinner?”

“Not that kind of hunger.”

Her frown was enough of a question. 

“It hits the hardest after a good feeding,” he explained. “The better the blood, the harder it is to convince your instinct you don’t need more. And yours was—I’ve never tasted anything like that before.” 

Embarrassingly, her cheeks threatened to warm. How stupid was it to feel proud about something she couldn’t help? 

“When you check your phone, you can text me back. Or call. Or ignore it altogether. That’s something you’ll have to decide on your own.” He didn’t seem discouraged by her silence. “I have a busy week coming up. I scheduled too much shit in advance, so I can’t promise that I’ll be quick to reply. But I promise that I will.”

Sitting in a car she’d driven a thousand times, wearing a shirt she’d owned since undergrad and smelling like the same off-brand shampoo she bought in bulk, Rey didn’t recognize herself. Who was this person without a voice? She wasn’t easily cowed. Heedless of their claws, she snapped at the manticores who forgot to towel down their equipment at the gym. She broke up with her last boyfriend at nine o’clock in the morning and thoroughly enjoyed her solo brunch at noon. She shouldn’t need Ben’s instructions. This moment shouldn’t be a moment at all. 

For a split second, a very weak, shameful part of her heart wanted to hear him say it again. That he promised. She needed to know it was true. 

And then she was angry. Unexpectedly so. She didn’t need this—these reassurances, his _understanding_. 

_How many times has he done this before?_ she thought, her chest filling with tar, acrid and thick. _How many times have his costars needed help saying goodbye? It’s pathetic, that you feel this attached. He has things to do. He wants to see his family but instead he’s trapped here. In a stranger’s car. Your car. Forced to hand-feed a goodbye to someone dumb enough to forget he signed a contract._

“I hope you have a safe drive,” she blurted, and because she needed to prove to herself that she could, she looked at him. 

His brow had furrowed. He looked like a man who’d expected his next step to feel the same as the last. Only now—somehow—he’d lost his foot altogether. 

He waited a moment before asking, “Is that all?”

She swallowed thickly. _Don’t be an ass. It’s not his fault._ “It was—I had a lot of fun. Working with you.” His furrow deepend. “You didn’t have to do all those nice things to my apartment.” 

“I wanted to.”

Her heart seized. Christ, how much longer would this go on? She needed to leave. _Should_ have left ten minutes ago. “Still. Thank you.”

He only searched her face. 

“You were a wonderful husband.” She said it too quickly, afraid of what he might hear if she gave her words room to breathe. “Try not to get too angry at your dad. Plan your revenge on the highway. Make a few changes of your own before you see him again. A bumper sticker or five. Metallic flames on the hood.”

“Inventive.” He looked like he wanted to say something else, but gathered up his bag in silence. Without asking, he knew to kick the door to help it unlatch. The whole car wobbled as he left it, relieved of his weight, but rocked again when he leaned against it. He poked his head through the open window. “Rey,” he said, and then again. Softer. Until she looked him in the eye. “Remember my promise.”

She couldn’t trust herself to speak, but forced a smile. 

He accepted it with a nod, his lips briefly tightening. “I’d eat the eggplant tonight, if I were you. Gets soggy if you wait.”

This had to be the most hysterical goodbye in the history of the world. Soggy. He’d said the word _soggy_. Rey focused on that—the absurdity of it, how it made her want to laugh—instead of letting herself care that Ben was walking up the driveway. She saw the top of a silver-haired head emerge from an unseen door. Heard the familiar sounds of a greeting. 

Her eye caught on a flash of fluttering wing. The definitely-a-dragonfly. 

Strangely exhausted, she asked, “Would you like to leave, too?” 

It made a soft _thwerp_ of disinterest. But stayed. 

“Right,” Rey said. And only because she was alone: “Thanks.” 

—

The afternoon had almost fully come and gone, but it still felt too early to drive home. Rey didn’t technically have anything scheduled, but there was always something to do. 

She’d been avoiding the hassle, but decided there could be no better time to settle a class credit dispute with her advisor. She watched couponing hacks on her phone as she waited in the lounge, sipping watered-down coffee. The chairs were metal and filled the room with soft squeaks when anyone dared to fidget. Students came and went. The receptionist longingly stared at the clock. 

She wondered if anyone could have guessed how she’d spent her morning. 

Her advisor was in no mood to argue. He scribbled his initials on the necessary form, adjusted Rey’s transcript, and wished her a happy Thanksgiving. She didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t November. 

Finn called as she wandered through the aisles of Target. He’d found Rose on the couch with their emergency stash of Laphroaig ( _“No chaser,” he said, slightly awed. “You should either feel proud or ashamed.”_ ) but asked very little about the shoot. They bickered about dog breeds and seltzer water and ten other wonderfully meaningless things until the ground felt steadier under her feet. She ended up buying two bags full of shit so needless that she was incapable of naming more than two things on her receipt by the time she loaded the car. Such was the risk of Target-shopping.

The sun had firmly set by the time she pulled into her parking spot. Keys in her lap, she tapped the brakes—on again and off again, flooding the garage in red as she mean-mugged the complex’s door. _Ridiculous_ , she wanted to scream, and ended up swiping her key card with such viciousness that it cracked. 

Halfway up the stairwell, her phone buzzed. 

It was only spam ( _“Free pixie dust—just pay S &H!”_), but she stared at the screen until it went dark. Someone in a nearby unit was having a fight: angry voices rose and fell loud enough to echo against the concrete. Rey breathed, still staring, knowing what she needed to do.

 _Grow up,_ she thought brutally, and thumbed through her contacts. 

An intentional fog had already begun creep in on their goodbye. She didn’t remember Ben touching her phone but he must have: his number had been added. Even his address. 

She typed. 

**Rey:** _Me and my zip ties are thriving. Very curious about your car’s new mods. On a scale of one to Scott, how traumatized are you right now?_

There. Good. Done. 

She thought no thoughts as she opened her apartment door. This was just another day and she behaved as such: tossing her bags on the floor where they didn’t belong, unhooking her bra as she shuffled into the bathroom to pee, and lamenting her lack of self-control when she fished through the bags again for a pack of powdered donuts. Her gifted gourmet chocolate didn’t have eyes, but she felt its glare from her kitchen all the same. 

She scrolled through Netflix. Picked a show she’d seen a hundred times before and flopped onto blankets that still smelled very clean. The donuts were steadily devoured, their sugar soon a sticky mess of white on her fingers. 

When she spent more time staring at the back of her eyelids than the TV, Rey courageously beat back her heart’s desire to sleep on the couch. Adult. She needed to be an adult. Adults didn’t sleep on sofas; adults _wanted_ to sleep on sofas, but knew their necks would regret it in the morning. 

Sullenly, her feet hit the rug.

Door? Locked. Teeth? Brushed. Electronics? Off and charging. Food—?

She wandered into the kitchen, squinting against the sudden light. Fridge, cabinets, and trash can were all present and accounted for. Her sink was empty. Her table was—

Not empty.

“Hello,” she said, stepping closer, because what was strange about greeting stray coffee mugs in the privacy of her own home? 

She’d already opened the cabinet, ready to put it away, before she frowned. Looked down.

 _Good vibes only_ was written in bold, chunky letters. At least seven vibrators proudly ringed the ceramic, all of them artfully rendered and colorful. There were names under each, though that font didn’t match the first. Rey had never seen it before in her life. 

Feet planted, she slowly twisted in order to see what she suddenly expected to find: a lone piece of paper on the floor. Clearly fallen from the table. 

Five breaths, and she moved to reach it. 

His handwriting was sloppier than before. Rushed, like he’d written it in a spare, frenzied second. 

_To my lovely wife,_

_Another mug for your collection. I hope you’ll forgive me the liberty of naming them without your permission. Drill Bill is sensitive about his lack of glitter, so please turn a blind eye._

_And if I forgot to tell you, please eat the eggplant._

_Your fanged husband,_

_Ben_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy that you're still here! Thank you so much for reading. If you'd like to pop by and say hello on Twitter, you should! I'm [@talltig](https://twitter.com/talltig) and I am indeed tall, but I don't bite. At least not like Ben. <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ends in a cliffhanger, so if that's not your bag, hold off until the next chapter. <3
> 
> I apologize in advance for all the italics. I hate them, too.

“Let me get this straight. You like him?”

Buying time, Rey chewed her salad until the leaves turned to mush. How was she supposed to answer that question in a way that didn’t make her sound fourteen? “He’s…” She violently speared another radish. “Ben’s likable. A likeable person.” 

Kaydel’s eyeroll was so pronounced that Rey half-expected to hear a cartoon _thunk_ at its end. “Out of respect for how thoroughly you brain-spanked Hux in today’s lecture, I’m going to pretend you didn’t just utter the cringiest thing this café has ever heard.”

“I didn’t say anything to the café,” Rey said mulishly, “I said it to you.”

Unbothered, Kaydel used her phone to check her teeth. “He fixed your apartment.”

“A light in my bathroom,” Rey corrected. 

“He purchased bougie food, cooked said bougie food, and left you a note tenderly reminding you to eat it.”

“Tenderly?” It was hard to sound exasperated with half a kilo of radicchio ballooning her cheeks, but Rey tried. “Were you listening to the part about the dildo mug?” 

“That’s right! I almost forgot. He left you a thoughtful, topical gift.” Kaydel cocked her head, phone temporarily forgotten. “What was the name of the purple one, again? Tom Wanks?”

“John Cutesack, and it’s irrelevant.”

“I disagree. It’s very relevant. It has to do with what you’re trying to deny.”

Rey sighed. “And what’s that?”

“That he likes you just as much as you like him. Which you do, by the way. What I’m trying to figure out is why you’re sitting here eating a ridiculously overpriced salad instead of…I don’t know. Having phone sex with him in the nearest bathroom stall.”

Rey counted off on her fingers. “Number one: I am not having phone sex in the same place I puked from food poisoning. I don’t care that it was three years ago and I don’t care what Finn says about new management—the soup is cursed. Number two: if you think I can get aroused by the aroma of undergrads shitting out last night’s hangover, you have more faith in my horniness than you should. And lastly— _thirdly_ , I don’t think you listened to a word I said. He’s not brooding in Poe’s basement. He’s not baking a scone in my kitchen. He left.”

Spinach-less teeth confirmed, the phone finally found its way to Kaydel’s purse. “You act like you’ve never heard of modern technology. Who the fuck cares if he left? What’s stopping you from texting him a picture of your tits and picking up where you left off?”

“Because even if he liked me, what happens next?”

“Sexting.”

Rey flicked a wilted leaf at her friend’s face. It flopped to the tablecloth, looking just as exhausted as Rey felt. How many times? Poe, Jessika, and now Kaydel. She offered them logic; they offered her worldly ignorance. 

She tried to picture Kaydel as a student. A short, crayon-wielding ankle-biter with the reasoning skills of a flightless bird. Education. She only needed to be educated. If Rey remembered that, perhaps she could cope with the rest of this pointless conversation. 

“Okay,” she started, imagining that she sat behind a teacher’s desk. Class was in session. Her salad even had apples. “So we sext. Pictures are exchanged. There are nipples and wet cock and cum splatter on various surfaces of your imagining.”

Kaydel grinned. “Hot.”

“Sure. And it’s fun. I’m not with anyone—busy as I am, there’s enough time for illicit goings-on. We fucked, so the visuals would probably hit extra hard. I’d know exactly what he means when he promises to bite.” She could _see_ Kaydel’s eyes glaze over with happy imagination, so she spoke a little louder. Quicker. “Weeks go by. I’ve invested in rechargeable batteries. Two vibrators have been officially retired. There is not a sanitary liquid in my house, car, or purse that I have not attempted to dye red. He’s seen more of my fake blood than he’s ever swallowed.” She paused, leaning forward for emphasis. “And then I have a bad day.”

“You stain your sheets with ketchup?"

“I fail a test.”

In lieu of rolling her eyes, Kaydel rubbed them. “Rey,” she said flatly, “you have never failed a test.”

“Which means it’s especially devastating when it happens.” Should she sound so forceful? Were teachers meant to envision choking their student with said student’s boho scarf? “At first I think it’s a mistake. I then make the critical error of confirming with Dr. Tarkin, who—” 

“Collapses from a long overdue stroke?”

“—reassures me that not only did I fail my test, I failed it so spectacularly that he questions my continued presence within the program. The whole class is a midterm and a final. I fail the final, I’m short on credits. I’m short on credits, I don’t graduate on time. Scholarships don’t extend just because their scholar forgot to make flashcards.”

Kaydel muttered under her breath. Rey caught _jesus fuck_ and not much else. Louder, Kaydel asked, “What does this have to do with the vampire porn star?” 

“Because when I call Finn on the way home, it goes to voicemail. He and Rose are at some art festival. Poe’s recruiting a lead for his newest film. Even if he picked up, he’d only text me a picture of a rash, a link to WebMD, and a question mark. You’re…wherever you want to be, but also unavailable.”

“Enter: Ben.” 

Rey nodded. “I text him because we’ve been texting. We talked before the shoot—it’s not outside the realm of reason that we could do it again. We could call.”

“And if he’s even remotely intelligent, he’ll tell you what the rest of us _would_ have told you, which is that there’s no way they’re going to kick you out of the program.” _Not the point_ , Rey wanted to growl, but Kaydel kept going. She flicked up her wrist to check the time, then started stacking their plates. “Once you finish catastrophizing, the two of you can say sexy things and break out the lube. End of story.” 

“Exactly,” Rey gritted, and allowed herself one blissful moment to imagine herself with fangs. Human canines were so much less visually frightening. “That’s my fucking point. That’s the end of the story. _Nothing else happens._ ”

“I can tell that you want me to nod understandingly. I’m afraid I can’t, as I still don’t see how you’ve twisted yourself into believing Ben doesn’t want you. Are you done with your drink?” she asked, and reached for Rey’s empty glass. 

More violently than necessary, Rey snatched it closer. Someone at a nearby table stopped talking. 

“It’s not about him wanting or not wanting me.” It _wasn’t_. “It’s about him living on the other side of the state. It’s about me wanting more than phone calls and dick pics when he can drag himself away from work.” Something ugly had crept into her voice. Something small and self-hating and mean. Kaydel stilled, and for the first time, Rey dared to hope that she actually listened. “I don’t need a new friend. I’m not interested in playing another supporting role in someone else’s life. If I have a shit day, I don’t want the person I love to stare at me through a screen. I want them next to me on the couch.”

“So does everyone else in a long-distance relationship.” Kaydel spoke cautiously. Like she’d been handed a bomb, a wire cutter, and a blindfold. “You think there aren’t a million other people in the same situation? I’m sure they’re not happy about it either, but they make the choice to try.”

“Call me weak, then. That’s not what I want.”

“It’s not weak to want someone to hold you on the couch, Rey. That’s not what I’m saying.”

“No, you’re saying I should ask a man—a vampire porn star—I knew for _four days_ if he’d like to date a broke grad student with abandonment issues and an expansive dildo collection.”

“Yes.”

Rey goggled. 

“You want him to live nearby. That’s valid. I’ll admit that four days is too soon to start sending Zillow links, but I won’t validate your insecurity by telling you that you’re right.” She leaned forward over the dish mountain. “Because you’re not.” 

Rey felt like she’d been handed a tangled mass of string. She didn’t know which end to pull first. “I tell you that I don’t want a long-distance relationship and you pivot to insecurity?”

“I don’t have the patience for pivoting. Pick the demolition metaphor of your choice—I went with the actual issue instead of the one you’re using as a smokescreen.”

“A _smokescreen_?”

“Is dating someone who lives three hundred miles away ideal? No. But you’re focusing on all the reasons why it’s terrible instead of the ways you could make it work. A five hour drive is not insurmountable. You don’t have class on Fridays and even _if_ I didn’t take badass notes, Phasma streams all her Thursday lectures anyway. That’s four days of in-person fucking. I’d say you’re welcome, but nothing I just said was something you didn’t know.”

Rey floundered again, only managing, “You think I can afford to take four days off of work?” 

Kaydel nodded—not as an answer, but as if she’d heard exactly what she expected. “I do realize I’m approaching this whole situation with the delicacy of a sledgehammer, but I’m feeling ballsy. I _also_ feel like you’re sabotaging what has the potential to be a fantastic relationship.”

“How can you possibly say that with a straight face?” 

“You can pretend it’s normal for porn stars to insist on paying for each other’s car repairs, but it’s not. And while she was admittedly roaring drunk, you should have heard Rose rave about you two on the phone. She must have slurred _startingly intimate_ about forty seven times. That’s beyond you mentioning him at all, which is more interest than anyone with a cock has earned in years. _Years_. And I trust you, Rey. You don’t fall in love with dumb men.”

Rey was silent.

“You mentioned your jobs. Four days off. Here’s a hard truth: that’s just another excuse.”

Indignancy threatened to curl Rey’s lip. “The last time I checked, landlords didn’t accept free porn subscriptions as payment.”

“Right, but no one’s saying you can’t work. Trade shifts at the gym. You wouldn’t be crossing state lines, so Lyft is still an option. Half the shit you do for Poe can either be done over the phone or prepped in advance. Ben should be expected to visit, too. You wouldn’t be gone all weekend, every weekend. Just enough to make it work. But back to my biggest point: your childhood.” 

Even if she’d been handed a script, Rey wasn’t sure she could keep up with the conversation. “I thought your point had to do with insecurity.”

“It does.” Kaydel spared half a second to dismiss a notification from her watch. It almost immediately lit up again. And again. “You’re extraordinarily tight-lipped about it, but your childhood sucked. More than I think you realize, sometimes. You’ve spent the last however many years trying to give yourself what you lacked. A home. People that love you. You crave stability, and you panic when it’s threatened.”

Why had she ever felt happy about capturing Kaydel’s full attention? Through tight teeth, Rey said, “Show me a person who doesn’t want those things.”

“It’s not wrong that you want them. Feeling loved and safe is a basic human right. I could probably name off eight people who thrive on instability—one of whom is your boss—but that would be getting off track.” Another pause to swipe away a notification. It could have been a trick of the light, but it looked bright red. “So you’re right. Everyone wants love and a good mattress under a dry roof. What makes _you_ different is that deep down, I think you’re convinced you don’t deserve them.”

“I don’t remember ordering my salad with a side of armchair therapy,” Rey muttered. 

Kaydel raised her hands, palms forward. Unapologetically, she said, “Sledgehammer. I know. I could be wrong, I guess, but it’s a theory that fits. Ben’s given you a thousand brightly lit, neon signs that say he’s interested. But you’re stalling. Why? Because you like him back, but you were worth leaving once. What’s stopping him from realizing the same thing your parents did? Safer to deny him the opportunity altogether.”

Rey heaved a heavy, slow sigh. She rested her chin on a hand and angled her eyes to the wall. Someone had used Siracha to smear a checkmark onto the shiplap. “Aren’t you supposed to be saying these things with a gentle voice?” she asked tiredly. “Attempting to hold my hand?”

“Maybe,” Kaydel allowed, distracted anew by her watch. “But we’re not in a Hallmark movie. This is real life, and real life means that I was supposed to start my tutoring shift ten minutes ago. If you want to grab a beer and cry about it later, we can. I say that with sincerity.”

“Mm,” Rey hummed absently. “Bars do offer better soundtracks. Hard to have teary emotional breakthroughs to Top 40 hits.”

Kaydel’s purse flopped onto the table. Rey watched as she fished out her wallet, thumbing through cash as she leaned to examine their check. “I even hear it’s supposed to rain. The world has no business being sunny during conversations about childhood trauma. Do you have change for a twenty?”

Rey didn’t, but an eavesdropping gnome did, and soon the business of leaving was finalized. 

The day was still young and gorgeous. If the evening promised rain, Rey could detect no sign of it—the campus was blooming with life: students sunning themselves on blankets, their books and studying forgotten; flowers merrily swaying in their manicured beds; music drifting from at least three different acoustic guitars, all of them poorly played. It was exactly the stereotypical scene Rey had never thought she’d witness firsthand. Once upon a time, this was a dream.

Something to think about. 

Late as she was, Kaydel still followed Rey to her car. She asked about Rose’s surprise party, and they debated whether boxed wine was still considered tacky. The final vote was a draw. 

“All I’m saying is, there’s no easier way to find a con-artist. Any human that claims to taste the difference between regional grapes is a liar. I could convince anyone that a Walmart wine is actually French.”

“I don’t know. My sister gags on Franzia. Hey—” Kaydel caught Rey’s elbow before she could slip into her car. “You know there’s nothing wrong with you, right?”

Rey’s brow furrowed. “I thought you finished this speech at the table?”

“Almost. I just feel like one thing bears repeating.” Kaydel frowned. “Or mentioning. I can’t remember exactly what I said. Doesn’t matter.” She cut a hand through the air. “It boils down to this: your parents left you for their own shitty reasons, not because you deserve it. You’re worth keeping around. Always. If Ben’s realized that, it’s not because you cast a spell that he’ll one day unravel. Okay?”

In a way they hadn’t managed to do in the presence of chalkboard menus and eclectic décor, the words swiftly invaded Rey’s heart. She could feel them—bumping and clanging around, stretching between one thump and the next, making their presence known. Refusing to be ignored. 

_Clouds_ , she thought firmly. _Thoughts like this shouldn’t exist without clouds._

“Okay?” Kaydel repeated. 

The metal of the door was hot to the touch. Rey fiddled with the latch, enjoying the very slight burn. She nodded. “Okay.”

\--

Contrary to what Kaydel seemed to believe, Rey hadn’t completely cut off contact with Ben. The morning after he’d left, she woke to a new text. 

**Rey:** _Me and my zip ties are thriving. Very curious about your car’s new mods. On a scale of one to Scott, how traumatized are you right now?_

**Ben:** _My mother had to remind me that patricide is illegal._

She’d smiled before she remembered that this was supposed to cause her pain. He’d left and she’d liked him and they’d obviously never be a thing, so wasn’t extended communication a bit of a farce? The odds were good that he only texted her out of some lingering chivalrous instinct. Rey imagined a sticker on her forehead: _Overly Attached Former Coworker: Handle with Care_. 

His response was as good a place as any to end it. He hadn’t asked a question. He hadn’t elaborated. 

Her eyes slid to the timestamp and realized the likely reason why. Vampires weren’t naturally nocturnal. After some quick mental math, Rey decided Ben must have texted sometime in the brief blink between tipping toward his mattress and face-planting in a pillow. 

Still. A worthy end to their relationship. 

Rey had absolutely every intention of leaving her phone in the bedroom. When she took it to the kitchen, she wasn’t proud, but cooking sometimes required a soundtrack. Having it in the bathroom was an accident. The couch was habit. She couldn’t be blamed for checking her calendar or her email and _how_ had Poe already booked another orgy? With trolls. 

She immediately texted Rose ( _prepare thyself and thine eardrums_ ), which reminded her to answer Finn ( _no, wtf is a beastars?_ ), which meant she might as well text Poe ( _has our budget for new bedframes increased beyond my awareness, or are you just feeling more financially reckless than usual?_ ), and what could it hurt, she was curious, her fingers were already tapping without her permission:

**Rey:** _Pray tell, what sort of mods merit murder?_

She hesitated just long enough to catch three flashing dots. He was already typing. 

**Ben:** _Chrome ones._

It was possible she’d seen his car in the sea of vehicles, but Ben had never described it. She already knew it was something older. If it wasn’t originally black, she could see him insisting on a paint job. It was probably written in a vampire rule book, somewhere: _At any cost, please work to maintain the aesthetic of our undead lifestyle. Acceptable colors include black, almost black, and certainly black. Please direct all complaints and inquiries to local management._

A manual, too. Rey couldn’t imagine Ben as a passive driver. His hand would absolutely _eat_ the gearshift. 

She wouldn’t mind seeing it. He could take her on a drive. Somewhere windy but with straightaways, too. If she asked him, he’d show off—the speed punching her back against the leather (it would definitely be leather) until she laughed, high on the thrill of it, and asked him to go faster. 

The screen flashed. She looked down, feeling guilty for no reason at all. 

**Ben:** _You got home okay?_

Why did it make her smile? It was _stupid_ that it made her smile. 

**Rey:** _Thriving, as previously noted_

**Ben:** _Good. I talked to my dad. He’s going to undo the fuckery under your hood. Call him when you’re ready to set up a time._

It was no longer possible to lie to herself: this was a conversation. Even worse, it was a conversation she found herself enjoying. He was obviously on his phone; she on hers. He wasn’t giving her the short, blustery answers she associated with running out the door. 

_Maybe he’s in bed?_ her brain suggested, followed by an immediate offer to imagine it. 

She cleared her throat and refocused on the phone. 

**Rey:** _If he’s able to fix a fifth of what’s wrong with my car, he’s more magical than you’ve ever believed_

She remembered the itemized list her old mechanic had sheepishly handed her at the last service. Shit You Needed to Do Yesterday, he’d titled it, and Rey recalled seeing a number past ten. Which begged a question.

**Rey:** _How much is this going to cost me, btw? If you had to guess_

She had a car fund. She was too broke to _not_ have a car fund. A coupon here and an extra shift there and Rey had squirreled away enough money see her through the next year’s worth of repairs. A wiser soul might have tried to sell, but Rey was too fond of its quirks. And memories. What other car could claim it shuttled a mid-shift werewolf and her teacup pig all the way to—

**Ben:** _Don’t worry about it_

Excuse him?

**Rey:** _That is the absolute perfect thing to say if you_ want _me to worry about it_

**Ben:** _My dad owes me at least two lifetime’s worth of favors. Fixing your car doesn’t make up for the first three months of 1998. You’re not paying him_

**Rey:** _You expect him to work for free?_

**Ben:** _No, I expect him to remember the time he left me in the faerie mob boss’ coat closet_

**Rey:** _You’re not serious_

**Ben:** _By the time he found me, they’d already fed me one of their sweetcakes. I couldn’t stop dancing for three days_

Lucky that he’d stopped dancing at all. Faeries were far and away the most unpredictable race. Demonic revenge usually meant arson and some kind of fart joke; _faerie_ revenge could mean anything from missing eyebrows to a tri-generational curse. Magicked sweetcakes were practically a prank. 

It did beg a question.

**Rey:** _What kind of dancing?_

**Ben:** _I don’t remember most of it. My uncle said I looked like windsock in a hurricane. And I normally don’t trust him, but I have a feeling his analogy was overly kind_

In the minutes that followed, all Rey’s plans to gracefully remove herself from Ben’s life were shattered. At least for the day. 

He asked her about the eggplant (“Spectacular,” she promised, and the bond was still fresh enough to echo his pleasure) and deftly dodged questions about his own hunger. She told him about her advisor and his calendar confusion, then about the restraint she showed at Target (“Three for _two dollars_ and I walked right by”), then about ten other trivial things. His opinion on laundry detergent. The Pontiac that cut her off ten feet before her exit. 

They should have called. It would have taken less time. But it was safer, somehow, to text. Easier to pretend it mattered less. She couldn’t hear his voice and he couldn’t hear hers and if she wanted to pee while they messaged about small block engines, she could. 

It was wrong to encourage him. She knew how these things went: they’d chat until the memory of his visit faded, dulled by the sun of new experiences. Easy conversation would be replaced by polite check-ins and apologies about hectic workloads. Soon enough they’d remember where they lived and what they were: two people dumb enough to think this could work. What was the point? 

Except as hard as she tried to care, she couldn’t. Ben as a _concept_ was terrifying. Ben as three dots and bubble-framed words was hard to fear. 

So they’d stop talking. So this would only hurt her in the end. As long as she never brought it up (and she _wouldn’t_ ), then this could be something she temporarily enjoyed. Secretly. 

Kaydel meant well, but she could only ever play at understanding. She’d dated the same pleasant, predictable warlock since high school. They had a cat. They shared a phone bill. It was easy to say it was easy when easy was all you’d ever known. 

Baking in her car wasn’t doing her brain any favors. Brunch devoured and unprompted therapy survived, it was time to get on with her day and forget Ben entirely. 

By meeting his father.

\--

Five minutes into her drive, Finn called. 

“Did I loan you my maracas?”

“No,” she said, idling at a stop light. “You loaned them to Poe.”

“That’s what I told him, but he doesn’t believe me. He called me a joy withholder, then asked me to check in with his abuela.” 

Rey frowned, lurching forward with traffic. “I thought his grandmother died. Did you agree?”

“She’s not technically blood, and yes. Maz is a lovely woman. Always compliments my eyes. Plus,” Rey heard the sounds of rustling, then the crack of a can opening, “I need a break from editing. There’s a very particular, exhausting mindspace I have to enter in order to ignore Ben’s dick.” 

She kept forgetting that they worked together. “How’s it going? The editing,” she clarified, “not the dick amnesia.” 

“Almost done, actually. Poe promised me a raise if I finished by tonight. He’s excited, and for once I think it’s merited.” He paused to drink. Rey could hear the echo of his footsteps as he left the kitchen. “How was brunch?”

She told him. He rolled his eyes to an audible degree when she got to Kaydel’s relationship diagnosis. 

“You disagree?” Rey asked. 

“I’m not saying she’s wrong, but she once told me my chopstick avoidance stemmed from medical trauma. Said they reminded me of needles.” 

“You’re just clumsy.”

“I’m just fucking clumsy.” She heard the jangle of keys and the slam of a door. “Are you dragging your feet because of childhood trauma? Do you secretly think you’re unworthy of love?” He made the sound he always made when he shrugged. “It’s possible. Maybe you have a complicated reason for your feelings. Maybe you just want to date someone in the same zip code. The real answer is probably somewhere in between.” Bird chirps joined his voice. “I gotta go, but call me later. Good luck with the car.” 

Rey hung up, already musing. 

The car. Ben had been gone three days, and she still hadn’t managed to ask what she wanted to know. 

_Why._

Kaydel wasn’t wrong about that: co-workers didn’t pay for each other’s car repairs, regardless of whether or not a reckless parent owed favors. Ben had liked her, but fondness didn’t explain his insistence. He’d repeatedly reminded her to call Han until she had. Why? 

She’d almost asked a dozen times. But something about hearing his answer kept her frozen in ignorance. 

So she’d skirted. Every morning she promised herself she’d abstain from messaging and every morning she proudly texted him a picture of her breakfast. 

_That’s all_ , she’d firmly tell herself. _Now leave him alone_. 

Only Ben didn’t cooperate. 

He commented (“You’re one egg away from a consumable piece of modern art”) and offered up his own pictures—mostly drab bowls of something healthy and boring, amusing only because of the shapes he made with blueberries. Today had been the first day he’d neglected to expound on its greatness. 

Come to think of it, he’d been quieter than usual. They didn’t text _every_ hour , but Rey had shamefully come to expect a semi-regular commentary on his day. 

What was the last thing he’d said? No one was behind her at a stop sign, so she snatched her phone off of the dash to check his timestamp. 

7:32am. It was almost two. 

Completely within the realm of reason. Absolutely unalarming. Rey had known Finn for an age; he was her closest friend, and there were still days where they didn’t text at all. She didn’t think anything of it. 

So why did this worry her? It shouldn’t. _This is what you wanted_ , she reminded herself. _This is what you knew would happen all along._

True, but it was still an itch she couldn’t scratch. 

Something uneasy crawled behind her ribcage. She would have called it the bond, except it’d been three full days—four, technically, if she counted from the time of his bite—and she’d never heard of bonding extending beyond a handful of hours. 

Her hand unconsciously crept to her throat. What if—

Someone honked. 

Yelping, Rey slammed on the gas, her engine complaining with a louder-than-usual _thunk._

“Sorry,” she muttered, feeling ridiculous. 

Enough. Enough of Ben, enough of worrying. She’d enjoy whatever benevolence merited free car repair, and then she’d move on with her life. There were horny trolls to plan for, now. A new membership system at the gym. Starting tomorrow, another dog to walk. One vampire was not allowed to steal so much of her focus. She really would forget him. 

_Didn’t you say that earlier?_ a voice asked.

_Maybe,_ she conceded, approaching a familiar house. _But this time I mean it._

\--

“How’s my son?”

Rey sighed. 

It was inevitable, she supposed. As easy as it’d been to pretend Han was just an overly talkative, talented mechanic, he was still Ben’s father. All things considered, it was strange that it’d taken him this long to ask. Ben was the puppeteer who had danced them onto the same stage. 

Afternoon had come and gone. Rey had knocked on the front door with zero expectations, but still found herself surprised by the man who answered it. 

There were pieces of Han that Rey recognized. Little mannerisms that he and Ben shared. The way they leaned against walls—almost challengingly, like they dared the world to push back. Even how they spoke. It reminded Rey of those illusionists she’d seen at the fair—there was something inherently compelling about their intensity. A quiet deviance, too. 

The actual repair of her car hadn’t started on time. She’d been welcomed into the house, waved at by a tiny woman on a phone call, and urged by Han to join him at the kitchen table. Awkwardly, she perched on a chair. She’d expected the visit to be unconventional, but somehow hadn’t anticipated watching Ben’s father finish his lunch. 

“Forget to do it half the time,” he confessed, mouth full of bread. “Wouldn’t bother even if I did, but Leia insists. Says I’m less of an asshole with a full stomach.” 

“I heard you,” someone shouted from a different room. “And I’m right.” 

Rey couldn’t stifle a smile. 

Han asked her about her car—what her last mechanic had done, imitations of the sounds it made above forty—but also about her life. Poe’s business and her part in it were sidestepped, naturally, but Rey found it oddly easy to tell Han about her first days in the city. Her degree. The odd jobs she maintained to fund it. 

Lunch devoured, the conversation didn’t cease so much as swap locations. One minute Rey was eyeing little fang marks on the kitchen stools (vampire teething?) and the next Han was asking for a wrench. 

Rey hadn’t known what to expect from a supernatural mechanic, but it wasn’t this: standing by his side as he worked, asking questions and receiving honest answers. She didn’t feel like a nuisance. She felt welcome. Like instead of breaking protocol she’d accidentally followed it. 

Han shared stories as he worked—gruffly, but with the underlying cockiness of a showman. Had Rey ever hunted with merpeople? Shopped at the Unseelie market or held a griffin egg? Had she ever _sold_ a griffin egg? Had she ever witnessed a werewolf’s first moon ceremony? 

( _“Isn’t that illegal?” she asked._

_“Yes,” Han said. “So have you?”_ )

She had things to do. _Plenty_ of things to do, as she’d anticipated waiting for hours as Han worked. When he asked about Ben, part of her wished she hadn’t been so easily swayed into assisting. 

How was she supposed to answer, exactly? 

_“As far as I can assume, your son is off nurturing his career. Filling holes of various shapes and sizes, putting his fangs to good use. Did he explain that’s how we met? I’m usually behind sets instead of on them, but the pay was good. Also, your son is highly attractive. He stayed at my apartment and I thought I’d hate it but we had tacos and did some inappropriate things on my couch and I sort of fell in love. But don’t worry, we mostly text about breakfast. My blood and I will soon be a memory—accessible, if needed, on Poe’s website for a small fee.”_

Rey swallowed. “He’s fine.”

“Once upon a time, I would have believed an answer like that.” Han straightened up, rubbing his hand against an oily rag. So faint as to be dismissible, Rey caught a flash of tiny, blue sparks. She wondered if he realized. “But one of the perks that comes with age is wisdom.”

“You don’t believe me?” 

“No,” he said plainly. “Leia taught me better.” 

Rey wasn’t sure what to do with that sentence. “Well, he’s—” She looked at the door that led into their mudroom. Her purse was there, her phone tucked away. “Do you need to see his messages?” She frantically tried to remember if they’d compared his oatmeal’s blueberries to anal beads this morning, or yesterday. How far could she scroll? “I guess it’s fairer to say he _seems_ fine. Hasn’t mentioned anything catastrophic. No limb loss, to the best of my knowledge.” 

“Always nice to know,” Han said, and Rey _thought_ he was amused, but his poker face was impenetrable. 

When he failed to say anything else, Rey withered under the weight of silence. “You could call him,” she finally offered, though surely Han was already aware. “If you think I’m hiding—”

He cut her off, shaking his head. “I imagine you keep secrets. Like anyone. That’s not what I’m after.”

“Oh.” She tried to search his face for clues, then gave up. “Then I guess I’m confused.”

“I believe Ben’s fine. I _don’t_ believe you are.”

She frowned. “I thought we were talking about Ben.”

“What people say and what they mean are two different things. You said he’s fine. What you meant was that _you’re_ not.” He didn’t let the words linger long before adding, “Adjusting to the bond is no mean feat. You’re talking to someone who resisted it for years.”

“You’re lying.”

“Fine. Decades.” 

“No, I mean—” She almost wanted to laugh. Then she hesitated, but there was no point in hiding that she’d been bitten. Ben must have already confessed. “There’s no bond. There _was_ , but it’s been days. It’s long gone.” 

Once, Poe had told her to prep for a demon. They were rare in the business, but not unheard of—a general annoyance to host and direct, but far less fussy than one might expect. They didn’t care what they ate. They didn’t care about thread counts. The biggest worry was always their unpredictability: would they show up on time? Were they _joking_ when they said they’d set the bed on fire, or did they just want to see people squirm? 

The only truly terrifying thing about demons was their pets. Hellhounds. 

Tail-wagging sweethearts around their owners, they hated just about everything else—squeaky toys, non-squeaky toys, toys and people in general. Sometimes they shit live coals. Their saliva tended to scorch. They were a nightmare, and Poe had sworn up and down that his actor was only bringing one. 

On the day of the shoot, he brought five. 

Looking at Han, Rey was reminded of the look on Poe’s face when she’d pulled into the driveway. She was about to learn a very inconvenient truth. 

“Not sure if someone lied to you or if you’re just lying to yourself,” Han said, “but you’re still bonded.”

“But—” Rey looked at her hands like they might suddenly hold an explanation. A note, maybe. _Am I bonded? Circle yes or no._ “That’s not how it works.”

“I’ve been a blood bag for over a century. I’m here to tell you that’s exactly how it works. In this family, at least.” He studied her face for half a second, then tapped the end of a wrench against his thigh. Like a judge delivering a sentence. “I can tell he’s hungry.”

She goggled. “ _How?_ ”

“Your eyes. Doesn’t last for long, but your pupils try to mimic a vampire’s. Whoever you’re bonded to. The hungrier they are, the more realistic it looks. Don’t bother,” he warned, when she moved to her side-mirror to check. “Only flashes, like I said. Nothing to see at the moment.”

Rey touched her eyelids in wonder. Nothing _felt_ different. “I was with my friend all morning,” she heard herself say. “She didn’t say a word.”

“Probably didn’t realize what she saw. If she saw it at all.”

“Before we—” She cut herself off. Han knew what he knew about Ben’s career and how they’d met, but there was no need to confirm it. “I researched. No one said anything about eyes. Or about it lasting this long.”

“The bloodline, I’d expect,” Han said, not sounding truly interested. Something under the hood had caught his attention. He leaned forward, squinting. “One of the oldest. Leia’s broken more than a few rules in her lifetime. Don’t see how our son would be different.”

“Wouldn’t I feel it, though? Some kind of connection?”

Han moved to a tool chest with absolutely no discernable method of organization. “Don’t you?”

Rey opened her mouth to say no, but stopped to consider. 

She didn’t feel like she had on set. The bond had been starkly new and bright, then. Unignorable with Ben so close. It wasn’t a tool to read his thoughts—he still surprised her; she still surprised him—but it _did_ amplify them. The stronger the emotion, the more easily she managed to catch it. Once he’d left, she’d assumed that would end. Had ended. 

Which was why she’d paid no grand attention to the small bursts of _something_ she’d felt over the past few days. It never happened while she was busy; it never stole her attention. It was only in the quieter moments—at home on the couch. During a bath. Like someone had knocked on a door and left before she could answer. 

_Ben_ , she realized. _That was Ben._

What had she felt? Han’s garage wasn’t the easiest place to concentrate. She still tried. 

Not every instance had felt the same. She recalled small, blooming bits of lightness that might have been pleasure. But more common was a pressure. Like holding her hand against a dam gone rotten. Feeling the roaring power it restrained and knowing cracked boards wouldn’t always be enough. 

_I can tell he’s hungry._

“This can’t be normal,” she said, just to hear the words aloud. 

“Life rarely is.” Han continued to rummage, seemingly oblivious. “Bonds fade, if that’s your concern. Even ones with my son. You’ll notice it less and less until you don’t notice it at all.” A pause, and then, “Have you seen my zip ties?” 

_Less and less_ , he’d said. 

Rey didn’t answer. 

\--

Haagen-Dazs, she decided, stomping up the stairs. She would march directly to her freezer, she would not grab a bowl, and she would not leave the couch until her stomach swelled from rum raisin. 

Her phone had started to scream by the time Han finally finished. A backlog of notifications she’d ignored in favor of watching him work had lit up the screen when she’d dared to check. Poe, probably pestering her about trolls. Kaydel, likely scheduling Childhood Trauma Vol. II: Beer Edition. And Ben, of course, because what about this day _hadn’t_ involved his vampirically toned ass. 

She’d shut it off. 

She wished she could do the same to her brain, but it continued to tiredly whirl. Reasoned, eloquent thought had been replaced with useless non-sequiturs. 

_He does cook a very nice eggplant._

_What had Han said about the tires?_

_He listened when you spoke._

_Had Poe checked the schedule?_

_He probably hogs the covers._

_Big men generate heat. You can’t afford the air conditioning._

_You don’t need him._

_You miss him, and you’d like him to come back._

Her growl loudly echoed in the stairwell. 

More breathless than she should have been, she slammed her hand against the push bar. Fifty more feet. That’s all she needed to conquer. 

Head down, she passed her neighbors’ doors. She focused on picturing their faces instead of the roaring in her ears. The one who constantly pawned off baked ziti. The one whose name she’d never learned. The one that looked like Pat Sajak. The one who always smelled like stale beer. 

She walked until she’d made it. Until she was home. 

Key in hand, she stared at the doorknob. Breathing. For a few blissful, golden seconds, every thought evaporated. She was no longer exhausted. She wasn’t angry at herself or the world. She wasn’t a person with too many choices. Nothing needed her attention. It was time to rest and once she had, tomorrow wouldn’t seem so daunting. 

And then someone croaked her name. It sounded like the last, broken breath of a dying man.

_“Rey.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there! Next chapter is officially The End. Chapter 15 will be an epilogue. 
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking around with our ridiculous porn stars. <3 
> 
> If you'd like to pop by Twitter to say hello, you should! I'm [@talltig](https://twitter.com/talltig).


	14. Chapter 14

“Ben?”

She said it even though she knew. Even though it could not possibly be anyone else.

The lighting wasn’t absolute shit, but it was _pretty_ shit. Coupled with the way he’d managed to fold himself into the world’s weakest shadow, Rey could barely see his face. Not that that truly mattered. Even blinded, she would have known something was wrong. 

“You’re here,” she said stupidly, still stunned despite it all. 

He might have said something, but it was muffled under the weight of his own palm. The tips of his fingers dug into his cheeks. His other arm was braced against the wall. He looked as if he’d dressed in his sleep: the tag of his shirt rested at the base of his throat, his hair was mussed as from pulling, and—her eyes _had_ to be lying—sweatpants sagged low on his hips. At least they were black. It would have been too easy to dismiss this as a dream, otherwise. 

The overall effect made Rey wish for a brush and an art degree. She’d paint him, if she could, and make millions off of capturing the dramatic way the darkness chiseled his cheekbones. _Ill-dressed Vampire in Theatrical Repose_ , she’d call it. It would be hung in a museum next to an installation of red eyeteeth and roses. The critics would shit themselves. 

“Ben?” she tried again, stepping closer. She took a breath, wondered if she should touch him, then frowned. “Why do you smell like cheese?” 

Another mumble.

“What?”

“I said ate nachos.” 

She’d barely heard him. She rolled his words over in her mind, picking up and discarding a hundred different meanings, finally deciding: “Surely not.” 

“I was hungry.” He spoke like a man tied to the end of a rope. Like whoever held it hadn’t quite decided to set him free. “I tried nachos. It didn’t work.” 

Her brain refused to visualize it. She’d watched Ben scarf down tacos in her own kitchen, but something about nachos did not align with his food aesthetic. _Artisanal_ nachos, maybe. But he smelled like he’d uncapped a vat of liquid cheese from a high school cafeteria and used it as a face mask. Daily. For weeks. 

Floundering, she asked, “Where did you eat nachos?”

“At a gas station.” 

“You have never in your life eaten at a gas station.” She had no way of knowing this, of course, but something about Ben eating food from the same place as roller-style hot dogs did not compute. Never in a million years would he approve of eating cheese that was _dispensed_. The mind boggled. 

She considered him anew. “You’re acting very strange.”

“I know.”

“And you’re standing in my hallway.”

“I know.” 

“Smelling like cheese.”

“I spilled some.”

“Right.” She cast around for a different thread of conversation. It was difficult. Helplessly, she gestured at her door. “Would you like to come in?” 

He tried to trap his groan, but she heard it anyway. “I don’t know if I should.” 

“Okay,” she said slowly, tapping into the same well of serenity she usually reserved for panicky, fussy actors. Freak-outs on set weren’t common, but they happened. Someone didn’t like the script. Unknown, bad blood between co-stars. Last minute contract amendments and refusals to fuck on blue sheets when they’d clearly stipulated pink. Someone had to listen to the indignant screaming and make it stop and that person was usually Rey. 

Ben wasn’t screaming. He sounded pained, not indignant, and while there were a million reasons why he could have driven back to creep outside her apartment, he wasn’t offering enlightenment. She’d have to figure it out herself. 

He thought she could help him. That was obvious. Either she had something he wanted or he believed she could _get_ him what he wanted. 

She’d worry his distress had something to do with his parents, except that she’d just left his parents, and the last thing she’d heard was their heated debate about who won a Boggle game in 1976. Han said he’d spelled ‘platinas’ and Leia said he didn’t even know what that meant and Han said it didn’t _matter_ if he didn’t know what it meant, it still boosted him to a win and he could use dishes just fine, thanks. Rey waved goodbye when Leia started hunting for a dictionary. 

The odds of book-induced blunt trauma were high, but between vampirically-expedited healing and the fact that Ben owned a phone, he had no reason to lurk in the hallway. He could have called them. Driven to their house.

What else, then. 

Poe? She hadn’t checked her messages—maybe they needed an emergency reshoot? Maybe Finn’s editing was no match for the severity of their sexual fuck-ups. 

Only she couldn’t imagine why Ben would bother to show up _here_ instead of on set. Not to mention at night, smelling of bar food and lying about eating in gas stations. 

_Come the fuck on_. Her brain sounded tired. _You are not this dumb._

Rey looked at Ben. Ben looked at the wall, softly panting. 

She thought.

The decrease in texts. The strange, gnawing pressure she’d felt through the bond—wholly ignorable, then less so. Han’s knowing look and the truth he’d spoken because it _was_ true, the signs were neon and flashing and it was so ridiculously obvious that Ben was— 

_I can tell he’s hungry._

A thousand unseen bubbles threatened to pop inside her chest. Lungs that had had no trouble taking in the hallway’s air stuttered mid-breath because he was _hungry_ and he was here and Rey really didn’t know what that meant.

So she strangled it. Suffocated her thoughts before they could run too rampant ( _just because he’s hungry doesn’t mean he’s hungry for_ you) and readied her key. She couldn’t manage this—not here in the hallway. Some realities needed to be faced with better lighting and in reachable distance of tequila. 

“Well,” she said, forcing her voice to stay even, “you’re welcome to continue brooding in the hallway, but I’m going inside. I have a fridge and things inside that fridge that may or may not interest you. If you’re—if the nachos weren’t enough.” 

_That was appallingly idiotic. He’s not here because he wants your overcooked pasta, he wants—_

No. She was not allowed to think. To assume. 

“Inside,” she said again. In case there was confusion. “I’m going.”

The key slid cleanly into the lock. Part of Rey expected to hear an ominous, over-loud creak, but the door opened cleanly. No neighbors poked their heads out in concern and no new crisis presented itself from her living room. Barring the vampire, it was all so painfully normal. 

Taking a deep breath, she crossed the threshold. 

Seconds later, she was followed. 

\--

Rey was at a loss. 

She didn’t know what to do with herself. She also didn’t know what to do with Ben. 

The first handful of minutes were easy. She did what she would have done regardless: tossed her keys anywhere but where they belonged, flicked on lights, inspected each room for uninvited guests without a clear plan of what would happen if she actually _found_ an uninvited guest, and shut her curtains. Far up from the first floor, there really wasn’t a need. But it was habit. 

Soon there was nothing to do but pretending she had something to do. She walked into the kitchen, taking out two mugs just to put them back where they belonged. Marched into the bathroom to flush an empty bowl. 

Her apartment wasn’t overly large: each aimless trip involved walking past Ben. Angry at her own avoidance, she’d resolve to join him on the couch only to be swept away by a sudden urge to inspect her bedroom’s floor vent. 

“You’re not acting strange,” she told herself, on hands and knees to inspect the grate. It was annoyingly free of dust. She swiped her finger against the metal, anyway. Sullen. “You are making very rational decisions.”

Except she knew she wasn’t, and it didn’t matter where she fled: she couldn’t forget who was waiting in her living room. Whose text messages she _still_ hadn’t read and who definitely hadn’t driven half the day in order to admire her houseplants. Even if they were thriving. 

He was hungry. He could have loomed outside any number of doorways, but he’d chosen hers. It was harder and harder not to wonder why. 

_Here’s a thought,_ the same voice as earlier drawled. _Why don’t you fucking ask him?_

Of course she would. It wouldn’t be hard. She’d casually walk down the hall, maybe lean against the doorframe. Nonchalantly inquire about the current state of his bloodlust. Calmly drive him to the nearest bank. Wait in the car absolutely not thinking about her wrists, her neck, or her thighs and what beat in the veins beneath them. It would be late when they returned, so she’d offer him a bed for the night. As was logical. They’d part in the morning as friends having survived a brief hiccup in their natural descent into stranger-hood. 

She would ask these things and do these things and she would not let herself be conquered by the swirling pit of _something_ in her stomach. That indescribable feeling that whispered about all the things that might happen. About all the the things that might not. 

Rey stared at the wall. Her fridge was on the other side, diligently doing its job. How rude would it be to engage in A Very Serious Discussion while spooning ice cream? 

Moderately rude, she decided. Although she was open to the concept of sharing. As long as he didn’t hog the sp—

There was a thump.

A _heavy_ thump. Like a blanketed bag of bricks had dropped to the floor. 

Her ankle twinged when she dashed down the hall. How ridiculous, that she’d waited this long. Made him sit on the sofa and suffer in silence as she tried to rally unneeded courage. Because what did she fear, exactly? Ben? The vampire with strong opinions on ciabatta? 

It wasn’t a long trip. The first thing she noticed was how little she was able to notice. 

The floor lamp was horizontal. Dark. She hadn’t turned off the light in her kitchen; it was just bright enough to reassure her that nothing had broken. No bulb-shards glittered on the carpet. 

She quickly scanned the rest of the room. Her fichus, upright. Pictures undisturbed. Her couch, no longer flush against the wall. It was cockeyed and bare, all the afghans pulled off and covering an enormous lump that gave an angry snarl and twitched when she poked it with her foot. 

“I apologize for ignoring you,” she said, “but this is no way to get my attention.” And then, when he didn’t answer: “Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry.”

Frowning, she gently eased herself to the floor. Her hand reached out to touch the nearest rounded swell. She expected to feel the unyielding firmness of his skull, but misjudged. “I, too, apologize. That was supposed to be a comforting head rub. Your ass is curvier than I remembered.” Gathering her words, she gave it another fond pat. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

She could hear him breathing. It wasn’t even. “Being here.”

Something about the way he said it threatened to break her heart. Softer than before, she said, “Would you feel better to know I don’t mind?”

He didn’t say anything. 

Enough. She searched until she found a blanket’s scalloped edge. She tugged it off, then another, then one more until Ben was finally unearthed. 

He was on his side, one elbow braced against the floor so he wasn’t fully prone. He looked like he’d fallen, attempted to get up, and decided mid-way through that it wasn’t worth the effort. She couldn’t see his face, which was starting to feel like an intentional trend. 

She tried again. “Why are you on the floor?”

“I fell.”

“I see that. Does this happen often?”

“No.”

“That’s good to know, although I’d appreciate deeper enlightenment.” She studied the broadness of his back and decided it was moving too little for her liking. “Does you being on the floor have something to do with the reason you’re holding your breath?” 

He must have taken it for a challenge: he immediately tried to breathe normally, but sputtered on his third inhale. 

“Congratulations. I don’t think I’ve ever heard an angrier cough.” She tried to keep her voice light. As if this was fine. Real concern encroached like a rising tide—something she had the strength to fight, but not for long. “Could you—?” She shuffled closer for better leverage, and tried to tug at his shoulder. He didn’t budge. “I want to help you, but you have to talk. I can’t read your mind.” 

Not even at the height of their bond had that been possible, but it did make her wonder. 

Maybe there was a way to find answers. 

It was ridiculous to think she could try. She didn’t even have the language to express _what_ she wanted to try, only that she’d seen stranger things happen on a porn set. If a wizard could spell his cum florescent blue, it couldn’t hurt to poke at the remains of a vampire bond. 

She tried to focus. She felt a little like she had when Finn dragged her to his meditation class: self-conscious in the face of everyone’s confident serenity. Surely they all knew she was dreaming about corn chips instead of counting her breaths. Every time she peeked (and she peeked a lot), she was convinced that someone would complain. 

_She’s an imposter_ , they’d cry. _Her thoughts are loud and unimaginative. Set her free. May she find her own peace so she stops interrupting mine._

She’d felt like a fraud when she stayed—never managing to convince herself she wasn’t fucking up in a very obvious, laughable way. It wasn’t fair to call meditation an awful experience, but she did eat a whole bag of Fritos for dinner. 

Part of her expected Ben to laugh when she followed the instructor’s advice. _Focus inward_. 

It helped that Ben wasn’t looking. If he wanted to brood at the carpet, so be it. He could guess the varied origins of its stains as Rey let her mind wander back to the shoot. The moment he’d bitten her and the bond sparked to life. 

How had it felt? Then, and in all the small moments she’d experienced it after? 

Like someone had taken her hand in the dark.

She concentrated.

The room wasn’t quick to fade away. Rey struggled to banish the prickling of the carpet under her knees and the distant concern that she’d forgotten to take out the trash, but she did close her eyes. Argued with her heart until it slowed. 

Without knowing why, she pictured a garden. A place that might exist outside the city. Somewhere achingly green. Open fields and smaller, winding paths that muffled the outside world without a single spell. There were roses and camellias and daylilies and a thousand other flowers that didn’t need names to be beautiful. Dark, sprawling ivy on stone. Ancient trees tall enough to hide the sun. 

Rey moved with the belief that she’d find what she wanted. Her gait was unhurried and the ground was cool against her feet. 

It was like following the scattered notes of a song, half its melody stolen by the wind. Sometimes it threatened to disappear entirely, but it didn’t matter. Rey was unbothered. She walked—pushing branches, leaving the trail only to return to it, acknowledging the little arcs of lightning in her chest without fear, welcoming back the writhing thing that had almost managed to hide, and then running because it was running too and it could try if it wanted, but it wouldn’t win. 

Because Ben didn’t care about losing. And it _was_ Ben that sprawled beside a pond, his footsteps deep craters in the mud. 

_There you are_ , she tried to say, but this was a dream. So she thought it, and knew that he heard. 

His lips didn’t move. _I tried to hide it_. 

She heard him and frowned. 

_This_ , he added, as if she’d spoken. _You didn’t ask for it._

She didn’t know what he meant. 

Ben nodded, slow and resigned. As if her silence were the answer he expected. _But I’m tired._

She stepped closer. 

_And I failed._

The edges of the world began to curl—a lovely picture set too close to flame. The trees shuddered and the golden light flickered like something winged and massive passed before the sun. Inside her chest was a riot of twisting, agonizing need and Rey wasn’t afraid. 

Ben rose to his feet. 

_Look at me,_ she ordered, uncaring of the sudden wind. _Ben. I want you to—_

She stumbled.

Rey could have sworn he’d watched her approach, but he hadn’t. Because she’d never forget eyes that looked like _that_ —an otherworldly black, flecked with red that glowed like hellfire. The skin beneath was bruised a deep purple, the rest of his face bloodless and vampirically pale. 

_Monsters_ , the oldest records had warned. _Earth-bound demons_. Rey heard the histories like everyone else and shrugged like everyone else, too, because those days were dead. Vampires were accountants and movie stars. They needed blood, but what was so strange about a diet? With so many other supernaturals battling for attention, vampires were far from the strangest thing someone could expect to see on the street. 

Seeing Ben, Rey knew the legends hadn’t lied. 

He was breathtakingly inhuman. So shockingly _other_ that her memory of him eating tacos had to be a lie. It was impossible to believe he was anything but a predator—something that hunted not just for need, but for pleasure. Everything she saw—his massive frame, his muscles, his exposed fangs, even the way he stalked forward—was proof it was fruitless to run. 

_Do it anyway_ , her instincts screamed.

But Rey didn’t listen. She was too busy trying to understand what had happened to the garden. Swaying trees had been replaced with the couch she’d found in a dumpster. The world was sharp again. 

There were only two constants: Ben, and the relief she felt in knowing what he’d been trying to hide. 

\--

Her mind reeled. 

Ben wasn’t just hungry. He was _starving_ , and destroying himself with denial. He was panicked with the enormity of it: wanting her until it eclipsed rationality. 

In the moments before the dream ended, the bond had shared so many truths. How hard it was for Ben to stay on the couch as she fled from room to room. How badly he craved her blood, how sick he felt knowing he might beg for the chance to taste it. Instinct rattled the bars of his sanity, howling that he hadn’t fed in weeks, in _years_ because he’d never known thirst like this—like he’d raze any world for a single bite. To hold her as he had before. 

She knew these things when it was possible she shouldn’t. 

Ben had moved. In a moment beyond her awareness, he’d mimicked her position: he met her kneeling, no longer hiding his face like it threatened to expose a secret. She had no way of knowing if he looked worse or better than he had when he arrived, but his eyes radiated the same hunger she’d witnessed in the dream. 

They also looked concerned. 

Rey focused on his lips. They were already fat from the prick of his fangs. And moving.

After a thousand years, she was able to ask, “What?” 

“Are you okay?” 

She cocked her head. “Which one of us lurked in a hallway smelling like cheap cheese?”

_Just as I suspected_ , his frown said. _She’s hysterical._

To humor him, she patted her chest and her arms as if searching for a wound. “Everything seems in working order.” Maybe if she kept talking, he’d recognize the truth in her words. Maybe it would calm her racing heart. “My knees hurt, but that’s to be expected. It’s because I found this vampire on my floor. He burritoed himself with my afghans and refused to come out.” 

So quick that she squeaked from shock, Ben grabbed her face. She let him turn her neck, his hands hot on her cheeks, and didn’t struggle when he studied her eyes. 

“You’re fussing,” she pointed out, patiently waiting for him to finish. 

Now that he’d managed to touch her, he didn’t seem inclined to stop. The strength in his grip eased. One of his thumbs swept under her eye, lightly rubbing like he’d found an errant speck of dirt. She felt him move to pull away twice, but each time he only switched his area of inspection. 

He was touching the fine hair at her temple when he growled, “That was dangerous.” 

She wouldn’t waste his time by pretending she didn’t know what he meant. “In my defense, I didn’t think it would actually work. I didn’t even know what I was doing.”

“Hence the word dangerous.” 

“Er,” she paused, “What _was_ I doing?”

He released her, failing to hide a grimace as he withdrew. His fingers twitched where they rested on his thighs. “There’s a name for it. If I remembered, I’d tell you. What did you see?”

That wasn’t an answer, but Rey suspected she didn’t actually need one. Whatever happened had happened regardless of what it was called. Sadly, the details were already slipping away. She had to concentrate before she said, “A garden. Or a forest, maybe.” He tried to hide his reaction, but she hadn’t stopped watching his face. “You were there,” she realized. His frown immediately confirmed it. “ _Actually_ there, like—you saw the same thing.”

He looked away. 

Rey considered his face. The pinched look of his lips and the tightness of his jaw. It was more than hunger. “You’re pissed,” she said, slightly shocked. “Why are you pissed?”

“Because it was dangerous.”

“You already said that. Twice.”

“Maybe it’s worth saying again.”

Rey opened her mouth, ready to argue that she wouldn’t have needed to do anything—dangerous or otherwise—if he’d answered her questions instead of dramatically sprawling on the floor, when she remembered the bond. She didn’t have to guess at his true feelings. She had a cheat sheet, ready and newly-awakened. 

It only took a moment. 

“Fear,” she decided, frowning. He was pissed because he was _frightened_ of something. She furrowed her brow. “Why?”

His lips formed words without sound. Stalling, like he expected to hear the punchline to a joke. Then, explosively: “Because that’s how _you_ should feel! You just—you do something I’ve only ever _read_ about and you do it with no training. No guidance. No concept of the consequences. You meet who I really am in a place I’m not sure a human has ever been and instead of screaming, you quip about a fucking snack.” 

“I’m confused. Do you want me to scream?”

“ _No_ ,” he growled, “it’s just—” He made a sharp, animal sound of frustration. “You should be upset. You could have been hurt.” 

“Do you see me denying that it was bizarre?” She tried to catch his eye, not giving up until she was successful. They looked blacker than before, the red more ember-bright. His hunger—momentarily crushed in the face of his concern—was returning. “I’ve never done a stranger thing in my life, and I’ve worked with Poe for years. _Years._ He’s a magnet for anything and everything unexpected. Historically, it causes problems. Panicking has never solved a single of them.” 

No response, though she caught the way his gaze snagged on her neck. 

“The bigger mystery,” she said, learning forward, “is why you still haven’t told me what you want.” 

His breath caught on an inhale. She didn’t hear an exhale. 

“Even though I _know_ what you want.” Inching closer, she expected Ben to flinch away. He didn’t, but he wasn’t breathing, either. “I know how hungry you are. Why haven’t you asked?” 

A brief spasm of pain tightened his jaw. “I can’t.” 

“I already saw.” She expected it to help—a burden removed—but his face twisted again, a mix of shame and denial. If she could feel sure he wouldn’t run away, she’d shake him. Her confusion needed a tangible escape. “I don’t understand why you’re trying to hide it. Or make it complicated. You want my blood and I’m willing to give it, so—”

Quick enough to remind her how _fast_ vampires could be, Ben’s back hit the couch. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t say that.” 

What the hell? “You didn’t have a problem drinking on set.”

“Different.”

“ _How?_ ”

Through the bond, Rey could feel how hard it was for him to think. Like his hunger was an oncoming storm—the same one she’d glimpsed in the dream—and he was running out of places to hide. 

“You agreed,” he finally managed.

“I’m agreeing now.”

“It was a contract.”

Utterly lost, she asked, “What does that have to do with anything?”

Crawling closer was a mistake: Ben groaned, turning his face like he might escape a sour odor on the wind and was _that_ it? The stench of her blood? Was it tolerable only under the binding weight of a contract? He wanted to feed—the bond couldn’t lie; Rey trusted what she’d seen and felt—and he wanted to feed from her, specifically, but something about her repulsed him. Compelled him to keep his distance. Her smell was the only explanation she could believe. 

Stupid, to feel embarrassed. Dumb to realize how badly she’d hoped for a different answer. He’d driven for hours and it might have meant something, she could admit now that she _wanted_ it to mean something, but sometimes the simplest answers were the right ones. 

“Fine,” she heard herself say. “I can’t help that I stink, but I get it.” 

He hadn’t turned his head back, but she saw a new scrunch to his brow. 

“Endives, right?” She stood up. There was no sense in staying on the floor. “Vomity ones. When you feel better, you’ll have to tell me if it reminds you of Paris.”

Like the word had been dragged through the dirt: “Paris?”

“I’m getting my keys. If I drive to the bank fast enough, you can hang your head out the window like a shepherd. Or a poodle. The breed isn’t important.”

“Hold on.”

“The point is that your nose will finally find relief.”

“Relief from _what_?”

“From me.” She said it like it didn’t hurt. “I could make the argument that you wasted an ample portion of my evening, but I guess it came from a good place. No one likes to hear that their blood smells like puke. So I appreciate your attempted tact, but—”

She’d been halfway to her purse. Strong hands gripped her upper arms and spun her around until she faced a white-faced, red-mouthed, _massively_ indignant vampire. 

“Rey, you smell indescribable.” 

She scowled. “That has been established. Why you felt the need to tell me in person, I can—”

“You smell indescribably _good_.”

She blinked. 

“The best, actually.” As if to prove it, he took the smallest of breaths and immediately groaned. Not loudly, but with an honest edge of desperation. “I’ve never smelled anything better.”

Slowly, giving him the chance to deny it, she said, “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

As eager as she was to believe it, too many things still didn’t make sense. “You babbled about a contract. About things being different.” His face scrunched again, pained, but his hold didn’t falter. “I offered you my blood and you refused.”

“Because I don’t want your blood.”

Jesus Christ. “Listen,” she said flatly, “you’re going to have to—”

“I don’t _just_ want your blood.” His voice was low and earnest and trembling with something beyond hunger. “I want you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be up very shortly! As in: later today or tomorrow, depending on when I finish editing. <3 
> 
> I _did_ up the chapter count by one because I got too wordy. Next chapter will be the official end of the story, but I'm planning on a writing an epilogue. That will be chapter 16. 
> 
> Come say hi on Twitter! I'm [@talltig](https://twitter.com/talltig)


	15. Chapter 15

Only a moment ago, the ground had been steady beneath her feet. Rey refused to wobble, but it took focused effort. She imagined a steel rod replacing her spine, rocks filling her shoes. It must have paid off: she sounded remarkably calm when she asked, “You want me to what?”

A muscle twitched under Ben’s eye. “I want you.”

Rey waited, patiently expecting him to clarify. _I left my new cookbook on the couch_ , she thought wildly. _Maybe he wants paté_. 

He stared at her, his breathing audible and still uneven. Slowly, like any sudden movement might spook her into fleeing, his hands released her arms and cupped her jaw, instead. When she didn’t react, he gently drew her closer. Her couch, the strewn blankets—they all disappeared. His eyes were very black. 

“You.” 

Defiantly, she narrowed her eyes. “In what sense?”

“Just you,” he said, and kissed her. 

Words were confusing, but _this_ was a screaming truth.

Rey remembered the first time she’d really thought about kissing. She’d seen it happen, of course, but it wasn’t until she’d caught her foster sister sucking a bruise onto the back of her hand that she’d bothered to worry. 

_I’m practicing_ , Mariah had said, _and you should, too. You don’t want to be bad. It’s so_ easy _to be bad._ Then she’d tossed Rey a battered magazine. 

Blinking down at the pictures, it had never occurred to Rey that there might be _steps_ involved in kissing. It didn’t seem that complicated. You had lips. Your partner had lips. Kissing just meant mashing them together. Weird noises were optional. 

The magazine begged to differ. 

She was supposed to open her mouth. Her tongue was supposed to slide against another tongue. She wasn’t supposed to drool, but sucking was encouraged—just not _too_ much sucking. There were side notes about biting (with warnings, naturally, for any pointy-toothed readers) and phrases like _make your mouth appealing_ and _light, darting motions_. Most of the pictures involved bolded arrows. 

So many rules. How would she ever remember them all? 

She grimaced through the pages once, then twice, then promptly asked a boy from her bus stop if he’d like to practice. 

In hindsight, it could never have been anything but awful. It was clear that _he_ had never bothered to read a manual. The steps were all out of order. Even when they did manage to do something right (Step Twenty Four: Intensive Tongue Activity), it was anything but pleasurable. 

It wasn’t until her memory of the magazine faded—years later—that she managed to enjoy it. Some of her best kisses ignored the rules; some of her worst followed them. Guiltily, she sometimes still caught herself labeling steps as they happened. _Excellent lip nibbling_ , she’d think. _An inventive reimagining of the tongue stroke._

There was no labelling this. 

Ben kissed her and she kissed him back and it was as simple and complicated as that. She had no idea how long they stood or what he said when his lips moved against her throat. She only felt the rumble of his words. At some point, he let himself be pinned to the floor. Rey didn’t know _how_ they were kissing, only that every point of physical contact mattered so much less than the way she felt. 

Wanted. Adored so thoroughly that it could never argued. Not even by a mind conditioned to believe the opposite. 

The bond was exultant. Fiercely happy and greedy in a way Rey was eager to satisfy. _Closer_ , it begged, and _more_ , no matter what they did. It didn’t care when her shirt was ripped away or how loudly Ben groaned against her cheek. They kissed themselves breathless—stopping only when air was an unignorable demand, gasping for it like they’d never get another chance. Nothing was enough.

She eventually realized why. While Rey focused her attention on whatever piece of Ben she managed to touch, he was far more single-minded. He kept returning to the same spots, his hands always guiding her back to positions that let him mouth at her neck or pet the inside of her thigh. 

The nature of _her_ need was unchanged, but his had decidedly shifted. The next time she tried to grip at the hem of his shirt, he growled, clamping an arm around her waist. He wanted her throat was it was. 

Of course. Rey forgave herself for forgetting. 

She let herself go pliant, smiling softly when he rubbed his nose against the thin skin protecting her vein. She imagined he could feel her heartbeat’s echo, was savoring the ache of anticipation the same way she was—almost shivering with the promise of what happened next. 

His fangs were already out. Soon they’d slip in deep and her whole body would clench, overwhelmed with a pleasure that every new suck would encourage to grow. She’d burn again and love it, free his cock so she could stuff her cunt and feel full, riding him as much as he’d allow because he’d—

She yelped when her ass hit the floor. 

Sense was slow to return. Then she moaned, because, “Honestly?” 

Ben had retreated. _Again_ , and suffering far worse than he had before. Shaking with need, he’d bitten the meat of his own thumb. He wasn’t bleeding heavily. Only a small trickle escaped the corner of his mouth, a burgundy line that snaked down around his wrist and threatened to drip on her floor. He must have stopped himself just in time. 

She watched, her body slow to recover. Everything ached. Her cunt was especially confused. 

_I was promised dick._

With a pitiful shudder, Ben released his own hand. “I can’t.”

“I _strongly_ beg to differ.” 

He shook his head. “This isn’t—” a groan echoed loudly when he glanced at her throat. His eyes snapped shut. “Not why I—came here.” 

Rey didn’t know if she wanted to strangle him or wail to the moon like a wolf. “You didn’t come here to feed?” she asked, incredulous. She wished she could catch her breath. “Ben. You were _two seconds_ away from biting and fucking me into the floor. Is that not what you want?”

“That’s not all—that I want.”

Déjà-vu had never been so cruel. “Did you forget the part where we kissed? I believe you. You want me, not just my blood. You made a very convincing argument. Now quit roleplaying a martyr.”

“If I fuck you,” he pushed the words past gritted teeth, “if I bite you, then that’s what—this becomes. Why I came.” He opened his eyes, and she could tell it cost him almost everything he had. “Because I was hungry. Not because—of the truth.” 

It was hard to think. The vast majority of her brain cells were convinced that she still straddled Ben on the floor. “Are you saying this is about your _credibility_?” 

He didn’t deny it. 

Fuck it. She’d strangle him _and_ howl. “You won’t drink because you think it’s manipulative?”

“You need—” Ben cut himself off with a miserable sound, swallowing reflexively. “You deserve a choice.” 

This man. 

Rey had no real idea of how long he’d been suffering. All day, at the very least, only to come to her apartment and truly throw himself on the flames of his thirst. He’d tried to stay away—first by hiding his need through the bond, then by resorting to something so absurd as nachos. Only Ben knew how many times he’d tried to leave the apartment as she puttered about, but current evidence suggested the number was high. He’d fled from her touch at least twice—three times, if she counted the escape attempt thwarted by her blankets. 

Because he wanted her. Because he didn’t expect to be wanted in return. He thought he knew what she saw: a man with no self-control, a vampire willing to say anything for a meal. They were friendly—of course she’d help him, but he didn’t want pity based on the dregs of a contract. He’d deny himself regardless of the cost if it meant Rey had a choice. If it proved her blood wasn’t his greatest desire. 

Apparently the kiss was only enough to convince one of them. He’d worked so hard to scream his point that he hadn’t heard her shouting right back. 

She stood up. 

“Don’t run,” he pleaded, a hoarse whisper. “I don’t think I could stop myself from—”

“Ben.” She said it as patiently as she could. “Shut up.” 

Amazingly, he did. 

She watched him carefully as she took a step. He seemed shocked that she’d chosen to move _forward_ instead of away. When she unbuttoned her shorts, he blinked like something had gotten stuck in his eye. Like the sight of the fabric falling to the floor was just the stubborn remnant of a dream. 

“Look at me.” His gaze immediately snapped to her face. She liked that—his eagerness to listen and obey. “You did this for me, once. In the car. I needed your help and you gave it. I didn’t know what to do, so you told me. Now it’s my turn. No—” He’d turned his head, rolling his jaw like he meant to object. “You’re going to listen.”

This close, she could see that he practically vibrated with need. But he didn’t pounce. Only raised his chin to keep her in his sight. His lashes were long. 

“I want you.” That felt like the best place to start. It was satisfying to see the way it hit him—his muscles locked. Her couch cushions gave a muffled squeak of despair. “I _have_ wanted you. For longer than I think I was ready to admit.” Another step. “And I’m not sure if it’s hard for you to hear, but wanting you means I want this, too. I liked it, in case you forgot.” She could feel his breath on her stomach. Sharp puffs of hot air. “If you can’t believe me tonight, I understand. I’ll put on my clothes, I won’t ask any questions, and we’ll go to the bank. Is that what you want?”

Ben looked…drugged. Dried blood cracked against his lips when they moved. “No.” 

She tampered down the thrill of his answer. “Then you need to trust me. And you need to believe that I trust you, too.”

It was tangible, the shift she felt inside the bond. He’d heard her. The scales began to tip—with every passing second, his conviction grew stronger. 

But he still didn’t move. A sour wave of anxiety threatened to twist her stomach until she realized he was waiting. Giving her proof that he’d do as she asked. That he could be good. Even now, when the price of restraint was almost unbearable. 

“Do you need me to tell you what happens next?” She threaded her fingers through his hair, fisting a handful hard enough to force his head into a deeper tilt. 

His rumble of assent sounded like a purr. 

She lifted her leg until it rested on his shoulder. Unasked, Ben brought up his hands to steady her hips. She couldn’t actually feel the vein in her thigh, but she used a thumb to trace an invisible line from her knee to the banded edge of her underwear. Her knuckles grazed Ben’s cheek as he watched. Enraptured. “You’ve fed here before,” she said, retracing the line. “Do you remember?”

The last thing she expected to see was a tiny grin. It was quickly hidden when he let his lips brush against the skin. “Yes. You kicked me.”

Right. She let herself smile at the memory, too. She hoped she’d never forget Ben’s outraged look of betrayal. “Do you remember how it tasted?”

A deep groan. He couldn’t stop himself from nipping at her skin, leaving pink crescent moons like a trail. He didn’t let himself bite. “I do.”

Rey knew exactly what she wanted. Tugging his hair again, she also knew she didn’t have much time. The fury of his hunger was pulling at its chains—stronger now, that he’d decided to believe the truth. He was slow to pull away. More reluctant to listen. 

“Ben.” Her breath caught when he looked up. He must have bitten himself again: his lips were painted red, fat from the abuse of his own teeth. “You’re going to fuck me.”

His nostrils flared. His hands on her hips tightened. 

“You’re going to bite me, and you’re going to feed until you’re full. _After_ you’ve made me come.”

A low, animalistic rumble filled the room. 

“No stopping,” she warned, her voice slowly losing its authoritative edge. Her mind was already racing ahead. “No running away, no wondering if it’s what I really want. It _is_ what I want, and you’re going to start by giving me a kiss. Here,” she pointed to a place on her thigh. Just above her knee.

Waiting just long enough to be defiant, he turned his head. The kiss was slower than she’d expected. Thorough, like it was the one task he’d been born to complete. He finished with a soft smack, turning back to catch her eye. 

“Good.” She pointed again, her finger slightly shaking. “Now here.”

A longer kiss, this time. Hard enough to bruise. His hands kneaded the skin in their grip, and Rey felt the return of that coiling, aching pressure from earlier. 

“Here.” 

The corner of his mouth brushed the edge of her underwear. He breathed before he kissed. Savoring. 

Swallowing, almost dizzy, she pointed to her clit. It was still hidden, but barely so: the fabric had long since gone transparent, soaked and steadily getting wetter. She felt herself contract when Ben stared, had to bite her own lip when he shifted a hand to pet her, brushing her own fingers out of the way. _Mine_ , he might have said, but the buzzing in her ears made her doubtful. 

She wasn’t sure how she stayed standing when he hooked a finger under the fabric to tug it aside. He leaned in to leave the lightest of pecks on her clit. 

“Here?” he asked, innocent in a way that made the question obscene, and Rey realized she hadn’t actually given the order. 

This was it. She could manage the words and even though she knew what happened next—even though she’d _said_ what happened next, she wondered if she was ready. Ben had been amazingly, unbelievably obedient—Rey honestly doubted if any other vampire in the world was capable of so much self-control—but he was finished. 

“Rey.”

Her name called her back. 

Even on his knees, he looked powerful. Capable of conquering whatever task set before him. Paler than she’d ever seen, his shoulder was a stark contrast to her leg. Faint smears of blood edged the light bruises he’d left, her skin ruddy but unbitten. Sweat tacked the curls of his hair to his cheeks. His fangs were already stained. 

He was waiting. 

“There,” she said, with the last of her reason, and he attacked. 

She had no idea how she didn’t fall. One swift, expert bite and her underwear was gone, unwanted and discarded on the floor. He ate her—sloppily, loudly, pressing her into his mouth until she was sure he couldn’t breathe. She didn’t feel his teeth but felt devoured all the same, amazed that anything could feel so perfect. And she was angry, too, because he’d made her _wait_ for this and she wouldn’t care if he never, ever stopped tonguing her clit or sucking with pressure that she couldn’t predict and being so unabashedly _noisy_ about it—grunting and panting and growling filth against her lips. 

She came with the first thrust of his fingers, grinding against his mouth and _wanting_ to scream but having no breath for it. 

Her living room blurred. By the time she had the sense to realize why— _I’m on the floor, he must have caught me, when did he—_ they were already fucking, his cock splitting her open with a force that drove them both across the floor, her hands scrabbling to hold on. 

“Have to,” Ben kept saying. “I have to, I have—”

His bite wasn’t gentle. He snarled the second his teeth pierced her neck, then whimpered with relief because she was bleeding—could feel it leaving, almost eager to be swallowed. He sucked greedily, frantic like he’d never have another chance and Rey wasn’t shocked when he bit again, close to the first, an overwhelming impulse he couldn’t control. 

Messy, she realized faintly. Her neck was wet and her body was deliciously, wonderfully on fire. 

It wasn’t an orgasm. The heat was as strange as the first time, but she happily welcomed it back, wondering if Ben felt the same. She’d always imagined a vampire’s thirst like a desert. A parched feeling, like the longing she had for water after a run. But maybe it wasn’t like that at all. 

For the first time she wondered if it was more like feeling frozen. Like standing in a sunless world until your limbs and your chest and your heart went numb and hating it, fighting the way it promised death. It would be terrible—a pervasive cold that overtook your mind until you couldn’t help but hunt for the one thing that made it go away. 

_Like life_ , Ben had once said.

What a relief it would be to feel warm. To find blood and swallow its heat would be a pleasure no human could ever understand. But if the bond was truly a connection to Ben, maybe Rey understood it more than most. 

So she shivered and gasped when he drank, not coming but not really needing to because this was a different kind of wonderful—giving a pleasure that echoed back in return. 

Ben was drunk with it, sometimes swallowing and getting so lost in the burn that he forgot to seal his bite. In between their first fuck and their second, he was dazed enough that Rey managed to surprise him with a finger coated in red. His eyes closed when she slipped it past his lips. 

“Good?” she asked, already knowing that it was. Her voice felt raw. 

He tried to answer, but apparently words weren’t enough. Rolling to his side, he kept her close and kissed her, instead. 

It wasn’t the first time they’d fucked, but it was so remarkably different from their day on set. It didn’t matter that Rey laughed through her second orgasm (she had _no_ idea her kneecap was so ticklish) or how softly Ben whispered his love. The sex could change as it wanted—from the intense, mind-splintering frenzy of its start to the slower comfort of its end. 

She was half-asleep when she felt a kiss against her thigh. _One day_ , she heard, and smiled. 

\--

Rey woke up to her nose in an armpit. 

It didn’t smell horrible, which was nice, but it did mean that she wanted to sneeze. The hair tickled. 

She debated moving. Getting sneezed on wasn’t close to a tragedy, but it was also far from considerate. A good person would wiggle away; a great person would wiggle away and find a tissue. She wasn’t sure if she cared to be either. 

“If you sneeze on my face,” a voice rumbled, “I swear I won’t make pancakes.” 

Interesting. “What happens if I sneeze on your chest?”

“I make _one_ pancake, and then I eat it as you watch.” 

“Mean,” she said, forcing the word around a yawn. Knowing Ben was awake meant she didn’t need to bother with subtlety: she flopped onto his chest, sighing when his arm anchored her in place. “How did you know I was about to sneeze?”

“Your nose was twitching.”

She made a vague sound of acknowledgment, too busy wondering if she wanted to fall back asleep. Chests had no business being so broad or comfortable. It was slightly distracting to realize it was a naked chest attached to—she let a hand wander down to check—a naked waist and a naked, half-hard cock, but she shouldn’t try to start something they wouldn’t have time to—

Her eyes flew open. 

Ben made a guttural _oomph_ when her knee connected with something soft. She scrabbled away with a mumbled apology, head twisting to find her phone. They’d never left the living room, and her anxiety ratcheted up another terrifying notch when she realized she could _see_ her living room. Light was easily sneaking past her curtains. 

It was harder than usual to turn on her brain. She slipped when she tried to stand, frantically trying to remember if she’d agreed to take Finn’s shift _this_ week or the next. It was somewhat irrelevant—she was going to be late, either way—but it did alter the method of apology. Was Pippa gluten-free? Maybe she could bribe Ben to stop at that bakery. If the sourdough was as life-altering as he’d promised, Pippa would be forced to forgive her. 

“Ben,” she started, the plan already coalescing in her mind, “I need you to—let go of my ankle.” Because he’d grabbed it in an iron fist. He used the other to rub at his face. 

“You’re not late for work.”

She goggled. “I am _absolutely_ late for work. There’s—” she gestured helplessly at the windows. “Skipping sunrises is a weekend-only pleasure. I have to be at the gym.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong, except Finn already called me.”

She blinked. “Finn called you?”

“Well, Poe called me first.” 

“What does your popularity have to do with the gym?” 

With a heaving sigh, Ben got to his feet. He must have known she was a flight-risk—he trapped her in a firm embrace, patiently ignoring her attempts to escape. He spoke into her hair. “Poe called because he’s a gossip and your phone is off. He was curious how the night played out.” 

Her nose wrinkled in confusion. “He knew you were here?” 

“Yeah…” Ben failed to hide a wince. “I called him at a gas station five miles from the city. Tried to get him to convince me coming here was a bad idea. Naturally, he told me your apartment’s door code.”

Funny: she hadn’t known it was possible to smile and panic at the same time. “That sounds like him.”

“I told him to text you a warning since you weren’t responding to mine. Apparently Finn was dropping off the edit and had opinions. He threatened a very graphic defangment if I stayed where I wasn’t wanted, then called this morning to ask if he needed to follow through. Also mentioned that you owed him eighty two favors.”

“Why?” she asked, suspicious. 

“Because he took the first half of your shift.” He rocked her. It was like being caught in the world’s biggest, gentlest hurricane. “So while you’re not _not_ working, you definitely have time for pancakes. And possibly shower sex.” 

“Oh.” She let herself be soothed by the swaying. Once the fog of panic dissipated, she narrowed her eyes. “How many pancakes?”

He pretended to consider. “My face has yet to be sneezed upon. However, you did knee my balls. I’m afraid that detracts from the total.” 

“Hmm.” She leaned back to investigate the damage. “Everything _looks_ in order, but I guess if you’re creative enough, you could find some way to file for worker’s comp.”

“I see. Would that necessitate some kind of doctorly physical?”

“Possibly, but I’m more interested in the size of my breakfast.”

“Wow.” 

She shrugged. “My hunger can be equally ruthless. Besides, I’m pretty sure you starred in that film. You know how it ends.” She patted his chest contentedly. Until she didn’t. 

“Should I be worried that you’re frowning at my nipple?” 

She hadn’t been looking at anything in particular, but she did raise her eyes at the sound of his voice. 

_That’s Ben_. The thought came unexpectedly. A new flower on an old, familiar path. _His eyes are brown._

It shouldn’t have been so shocking. He might have had brown eyes, but so did half the country. There wasn’t anything particularly unique about the shade. In the light of morning, he could almost pass for human. No red remained. The black had retreated to his pupil. She’d obviously seen his eyes before—here, even. In this room. There was no earthly reason why she should find them so fascinating. But she couldn’t look away. 

He held her, patiently waiting. He must have had thoughts of his own, but any noise came elsewhere. 

There was the faint thump of her neighbors’ footsteps, most of them sleepily slow. Voices muted through walls. Ben must have used the toilet earlier—it ran like it tended to do without the proper handle jiggle. Someone was always playing music. Rey could never name the song but sometimes caught her fingers tapping along to the beat. 

This was a day that was so much like all the others. So similar to the one that came before it that it took her far too long to realize why everything had changed. 

It wasn’t Ben’s eyes. It was what she saw behind them. 

Mild exasperation, definitely, but also every ounce of conviction he’d lacked the night before. He wasn’t looking at her like someone he’d fucked on a porn set. He was looking at her like she was _Rey_. Like he wouldn’t mind if he never saw anything else. 

She realized she wanted to kiss him, so she did. He accepted it with more enthusiasm than the moment probably deserved. Her breath was horrendous. 

“You make,” he said thoughtfully, “a very convincing argument.”

She could guess what he meant. “Unlimited pancakes?” 

“Until you tell me to stop,” he promised, but didn’t move away. He stroked her back, his head turning once when someone loudly walked down the hall. “All good?” 

“Yes,” she said honestly, “although I predict a minor setback in the kitchen.”

“Why’s that?”

“There will come a moment—I’d guess sometime between seeing you flip a pancake and eating my first bite—when I’ll worry what happens next.”

“Am I correct in assuming that ‘dishes’ is the wrong answer?” 

She hummed, then pinched him just hard enough to acknowledge his snark. “That’s not a _wrong_ answer, but it’s not enough of one, either.”

“Rey, I don’t know how obvious it was that I came here without a plan.” He said it wryly, tracing the curve of her smile with a thumb. _Gerbils_ made more rational decisions than the vampire she’d found outside her door, and they both knew it. “All I had was how I felt. I knew I had to see you, I knew you deserved a choice, and I knew I’d leave if you asked. Pancakes weren’t part of the equation. But I’m happy they are now.” 

She couldn’t help it: she kissed him. It made her fiercely happy to know she could do it again. In this moment or later or whenever she wished. 

The sunlight was stronger now. Pink had replaced the stark whiteness of his cheeks. _Healthy_ , she thought, and sillier: _Fed_. So strange to think it was because of her. Under her hand, his heartbeat was steady. He took a deep breath, and the look on his face was fond. 

“Plans are good,” he said. “Plans have probably kept you sane, considering who you work for, and I’m sorry I can’t tell you exactly what happens next. We’ll eat. You’ll drive to work and I will resist the very strong urge to rearrange your kitchen. I need to find a toothbrush. By the time you get home you’ll have questions. I don’t know what they’ll be, but I know I’ll be here to answer them.”

Rey didn’t need the bond to know he was telling the truth. “Figuring this out might get complicated,” she warned. 

“Maybe.” He didn’t seem affected. “Could be easy, too, but there’s only one way to find out.”

She waited for the idea to scare her. When it didn’t, she let herself imagine the future. Ben, dragging her to bakeries. Her, dragging him into the latest argument with Poe. Coming home to hear him bitch about the hole in her floor and bitching right back about his bougie grocery habits. Fucking on the bed— _their_ bed; cameras optional—and kissing each other goodnight. 

Ben’s phone started to wail. He ignored it, but she knew the day wouldn’t wait forever. 

One last kiss, and she pulled away. “While I’m taking a shower, you can start thinking of your first answer.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“What do we say when someone asks us how we met?” 

Hearing Ben laugh would probably become one of her favorite things. Right next to his cooking. She grinned as he pushed at her shoulder, warning her not to use all the hot water. Stalling, she appreciated the view as he swept up his phone and disappeared into the kitchen. 

The shower was wonderful. She played her phone’s messages as she shampooed, then sang a song so terribly off-key that she heard Ben’s groan through the shut door. 

Ben had already ferreted out a National Geographic by the time she poured her coffee. He shared his opinion on the cover photo ( _pandering_ ) and the editor-in-chief ( _overrated_ ), unconsciously reaching for her hand halfway through a rant about pumas. Rey listened, smiling, and ate pancakes as the world finished waking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End! 
> 
> \o/
> 
> I'll have more to say in the epilogue (to be posted before August ends, on my honor), but _thank you_. Thank you so much for reading and for all of your support. Writing this has been a journey. XD I really didn't expect a porn AU to develop feelings, but holy hell, it did. 
> 
> If you'd like to say hi, I'm [@talltig](https://twitter.com/talltig) on Twitter.


	16. Chapter 16

“This,” Rey announced, “is the stupidest thing.”

Finn frowned at his phone, then he frowned at the array of brushes on the vanity. He picked one, then frowned at that, too. “Do these bristles look ‘compact’ to you? I really have no frame of reference.”

She spared a quick glance. “It’s fine. And I notice that you didn’t agree.”

He propped his phone against the mirror, squinting at the screen. “I didn’t disagree, either,” he said distractedly. “Did Poe buy the right glue?”

“ _I_ bought the glue, and you’re holding it.”

Finn seemed surprised when he checked his hand. “’Skin safe,’” he read off, twisting the bottle around to inspect the label. “You sure this is good for humans? There’s a dragon on the front. Have you seen the shit they use to polish their scales? It smokes.”

“Scale polish and glue are two completely different things. That’s like bitching out your server because your catfish doesn’t taste like lychee.”

“Okay, first of all, that is at least the eighth time you’ve brought up lychee today. Rose does screen printing. Let me know if this is some kind of unsubtle cry for a t-shirt. And secondly, I’d be less sassy to the man holding a pot of skin glue. Sealing your mouth is a possibility, not a hypothetical.”

“Sorry,” she grumbled, letting her head thunk back against the neck rest. “Ben’s been experimenting with different blood mixers all week. He swears lychee is the answer. I keep reminding him about the fuckfest that was lucuma, but he doesn’t listen. Just keeps handing me smoothies. Without, I should add, having enough decency to hide the color.”

Finn unscrewed the cap. He sniffed the contents, grimacing. “Guess he’s opting for transparency.” 

“Literal transparency. He always puts it in a clear glass. And trust me: I never forget what it is I’m drinking. Vampire blood is _foul_.”

“Look on the bright side, though. You can throw away your moisturizer. No new wrinkles until you’re what—a hundred and five?” 

“So they say.”

It was still weird to think about. Rey had plenty of experience with the bizarre, but nothing had prepared her for vampire bureaucracy. 

The local coven’s headquarters was located in a nondescript, tasteful office building downtown. Her first visit started inauspiciously: the secretary introduced himself by waving with a fistful of Cheez-its, then immediately and kindly inquired if Rey might like a bag of her own. When she declined, he made a discreet phone call (announcing their arrival, she assumed) and they spent the next five minutes animatedly debating white cheddar versus classic while Ben’s palm grew slicker and slicker against her own. 

_Worried_ , the bond had warned. _Uneasy._ But the windows stretched from floor to ceiling and the sun shone against the floor and Viktor was making some very valid points about snack marketing. Ben must have something else on his mind. 

When an Amarantine lookalike met them at the hall’s entrance, Rey saw no reason not to extend a cheerful hello. “I love your pen,” she said for good measure, because the woman was holding one she recognized. “One of my bosses always makes me buy them in bulk, and—”

The woman raised a silencing hand. “Unless you are called upon to speak, your commentary is not necessary.” 

Rey laughed. It wasn’t until she registered the dull, throbbing pain of Ben’s grip that she realized she hadn’t heard a joke. 

_Anger. Restraint. Hatred._ Ben’s glare was fiery, but directed at the floor. 

Oh. 

This had been discussed as a possibility. Vampires fell somewhere in the middle when it came to regulation. They weren’t as strict as minotaur (who seemed to have rules for everything), but they weren’t as hands-off as demons (who gleefully encouraged breaking the rules of anyone stupid enough to make them). According to Ben, no coven cared where their vampires found blood. It was a very different story when it came to _giving_ blood. 

Vampire saliva healed, but it wasn’t practical enough for widespread use. It was only at its most effective when fresh; even then, no amount of spitting could mend a mortal wound. 

Vampire blood worked differently. It didn’t heal mortal wounds either, but humans who drank it on a consistent basis aged at a similar rate to vampires themselves. Everything else remained largely unchanged: they weren’t faster or stronger and they would never experience bloodlust. Injuries still healed at pathetically slow speeds. Predictably, no one had complained. 

Like most desirable things, there was a black market. A liter of vampire blood cost more than Rey had ever made in her entire life. For those that _could_ afford it, it was still dangerous. Human tongues couldn’t tell when they’d been duped—half the time, “genuine” blood was nothing more than something stolen from a butcher. Few vampires were willing to risk the wrath of their coven if caught; there was far more incentive for them to follow the rules than break them. 

Following the rules meant doing this: presenting a formal case. A series of meetings with a coven representative, answering questions and providing proof of a formal, committed relationship. 

Ben had filled out paperwork for weeks beforehand. He’d done his best to keep the stress of it a secret, but the bond didn’t lie and Rey had gotten used to the sight of Ben and Leia at her kitchen table, one furiously pointing at this or that form as the other argued with the coven on the phone. 

Rey understood the fuss, to some degree. Human medicine had made astounding strides, but no doctor could make the promises that vampire blood delivered. Long life was coveted. Whether or not vampires had a moral obligation to share their gift with the world was still hotly debated. It was a complicated issue with fair points on both sides, but for now the vampires held firm: there were far fewer of them, and one vampire could only afford to supply one human with blood. And because there were plenty of humans willing to cheat, lie, and bribe their way into a vampire’s company, covens turned mistrustful. 

_They’re going to piss us off_ , Ben had warned. _Intentionally. If we snap back, that’s grounds for refusal. And they’d like to refuse._

Rey tried not to take it personally when he was right. 

Not-Amarantine was vicious—that day, and all the rest. They were grilled about living arrangements (Rey produced a copy of their lease), careers (“Entertainment,” Rey blurted at the same time Ben said, “Porn”), and their relationship (“We went to Paris last year,” Rey offered, and almost proudly: “I hated the endives”). 

There were other tests, too. Blood was routinely taken to check for the presence of Rey’s in Ben and the absence of Ben’s in Rey. They were quizzed individually—not just about each other, but about the coven’s laws. Rey was thankful for her flashcards. And for Ben’s sexually creative study sessions. 

At the end of each visit, Ben’s patience was whittled away. “One bite,” he growled, almost spitting as they left the building. “It’d take one fucking bite.” Rey didn’t ask _to do what_ because she didn’t think he needed the encouragement. Also, Not-Amarantine had a tendency to unearth the truth. The last thing they needed was Rey confessing her imagined murder. 

It was awful, right up to the moment when Not-Amarantine kissed Rey twice on each cheek and said, “Welcome to the family.” 

Ben made her first drink that afternoon. Sex no longer felt complete without being bitten, but Rey gagged when she saw Ben chomp his own wrist. 

“Whus sa mttr?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed. 

Rey’s hand flailed for the nearest sturdy object. Horror-stricken, she watched him work his jaw. “Why is it _taking_ so long?”

“S’diff’nt.” His eyes looked confused when they searched her face. Then concerned. “G’way.” 

She went away. 

While she’d managed to finish every smoothie (and once, memorably, a very terrible cup of soup), she was still waiting for the day she could drink it without a pep-talk. Han assured her it was possible, which gave her hope. Ben’s father had the palate of a five year old; there were at least seven bags of chicken nuggets in their freezer at any given time. He unabashedly liked the dinosaur-shaped ones the best. 

“Explain to me again why you’re not a vampire.” 

Rey focused on Finn. Lost in memory, she’d missed the part where he’d applied the latex. He was fussing with the edges, now. “Come again?”

“You hate drinking blood. Seems like Ben can provide a solution.” 

She watched him dab a small bead of glue. “You’re saying I should become a vampire to appease my tastebuds?”

“When you put it like that, no.” Satisfied, he leaned over to check his phone. He’d turned on closed captioning; Rey couldn’t hear the tutorial. “But I am curious why you opted for the nasty smoothie version. You jumped through all the coven’s hoops, right? Wasn’t transformation an option?”

She shrugged. “It was. Still is, I guess. But I like who I am.”

“You’d still be _you_ ,” Finn insisted, though not forcefully. “Anyone’s read enough about vampires to know that.”

That felt too sweepingly broad to be true, but Rey knew his point. Transformation didn’t affect personality. “Could vampire Rey move her fridge single-handedly? Sure. Human Rey likes making Ben do it. Or just doing it herself. Besides,” she nudged the palette closer to Finn’s questing hand, “I think I’d actually miss being bitten.”

“Vampires bite vampires. We filmed one last Tuesday.”

“Right, but it’s like blood recycling. No one’s actually getting a meal.”

“Did you just casually refer to your blood as a _meal_?” Finn made a face. “That’s a unique thing to take pride in, but whatever floats your fetish boat, I guess. Now look at this. Are they using purple or blue?”

Together, they managed to approximate the right colors. Soon there was a system: Finn concerned himself with the glue and latex and Rey followed up with shading. 

“I stand by my original comment,” she said. The finish line was in sight, and just in time. Outside the door, the occasional footstep had changed to a steady stampede. The crew had arrived. Crews, if her memory of today’s schedule was accurate. “This is dumb.”

“You saw the poll,” Finn said distractedly. “Gotta give the people what they want.” 

“But vampires don’t leave scars.” She scowled at the number of fake puncture-bites dotted on her arms and legs. The one on her face was especially ridiculous: what vampire in their right mind dreamed of sucking chin blood? Her fingers itched to rip it off. “That’s the whole point of their saliva.” 

“You’re just bitter that ‘human buffet’ came in fifth place.” 

“You would have benefited, too. Imagine the leftovers.”

“I don’t care what the menu would be—I’m not eating something Ben’s dick has touched.”

“He doesn’t _fuck_ the food. He fucks me.”

“Yeah, and what do you think happens to the food in the meantime? Cheese danishes aren’t designed to withstand that kind of abuse.” His head turned to the door. Someone had knocked. “Come in.”

The knob turned, and a green head tentatively poked inside. 

“Scott!” Rey’s grin was involuntary. “I didn’t know you were working today.”

The beginnings of a blush turned his cheeks brown. He smiled, shyly and at the floor. “Poe caught me at the bakery. Said he could use an extra hand. I’m delivering messages until the shoot starts.” 

“My shoot?”

He shook his head, consulting a clipboard in his hand. “The troll backed out this morning. Poe found an orc big enough to substitute, but she doesn’t speak English. I’m translating.” Scott looked mildly intimidated by the prospect, but his voice didn’t tremble. Happy progress.

Finn straightened, inspecting his handiwork. “Which of us has a message?” 

“Ben called,” Scott said to Rey. “Said he was running late and didn’t have time to marinate the ribs. He mentioned, um.” An orcish blush returned, deeper than before. “A method of forgiveness. But it’s—I’m. I can write it? On paper. There are words that I don’t think are…good? To repeat?”

“Jesus christ,” Finn said, almost awed. “Save him, Rey.”

She did, smiling. “No ribs. Got it. Anything else?”

Scott nodded, pathetically grateful to move on to less explicit waters. “Han called, too. Wanted to know if you were free on Friday. Said something about troll-proofing a steering wheel?”

Finn turned to Rey, eyebrows raised. “You’re still doing that?”

“Yes,” she answered, and then to Scott: “I’m free, but if you have time to call him back, remind him to get his story straight. We’re changing brake pads. I think Ben’s learned not to ask, but you never know. And before you say anything,” she pointed to Finn, “I only lie out of respect for Ben’s stress levels. He’s had trouble believing the garage is safe ever since I came home with half an eyebrow and scorched jeans.”

“He doesn’t trust his own father?”

“Absolutely not. And I love Han, but based on the stories I’ve heard, Ben might have a point.” Scott started to awkwardly shuffle, unwilling to leave without permission but too aware of his remaining tasks to comfortably stay. Rey smiled at him. “Thanks for telling me.”

“I’ll call him,” he promised. “Right after I—” he consulted his clipboard again, “—feed the mermaid’s octopus.”

Rey tried to hide her wince behind an encouraging nod. “Aim for the beak.” 

As soon as the door shut, Finn sighed. “That orc is about to have a traumatic experience.” 

“Maybe he’ll reframe it as a moment of personal growth.”

“Before or after he gets dragged into the pool?” 

“After.” She worried at her lip. “I keep telling myself it’s shallow.” 

Finn made a noncommittal sound. 

It didn’t take much longer to finish, then Rey darted behind the screen in order to change. She’d picked out the lingerie herself: red and strappy and devoid of lace. Ben’s fangs caught on anything too delicate, so she opted for sturdier material—not leather, but something new the dryads were peddling from the forest. It smelled vaguely of honeysuckle. 

Finn cleaned the counter as she pulled on her pencil skirt and tucked in her blouse. She was fussing with her hair when he asked, “Mechanics, huh? You weren’t content with five jobs? Your heart longed for an even six?”

“It’s not a job. More like a fascinating hobby. And I quit delivering months ago.” 

“What’s it like?”

She had to confirm. “Working with Han?” 

“Yeah.”

Rey poked her head around the curtain and pointed to her purse. “Hand me that. I think I left my jewelry in the front pocket.” She thanked him when he did. “And it’s fun. He’s as chaotic as Poe, just better at hiding it. Patient when he wants to be, but I’d stay even if he weren’t because the Ben stories are golden.” 

“You can’t say something like that without sharing.”

She thought about the one she’d heard last week, grinning as she hooked on her earrings. “Apparently there’s a reason why vampires so rarely have kids. They teethe for _years_. Their fangs don’t retract until they’re older, so the babies gnaw on absolutely everything. Furniture, cutlery, slow-moving ankles. They don’t get iced pacifiers, they get chunks of wood. Can you help me with this necklace?”

The counter was clear when she rejoined Finn. Everything was stacked in neat little piles, which were arranged from tallest to shortest. _Ben would like that_ , she thought, tucking it away for later. Finn was civil and Ben likewise, but they weren’t friends. Maybe they could bond over their love of decluttered countertops. 

Finn’s hands were deft. The necklace was quickly fastened. “Interesting, but not a story.”

“Okay, so bloodlust is a big deal. It comes in waves so they can learn to control it. Their instinct is to hunt, even when they’re small, which usually means it’s a bad time to own a pet. Leia warned Han, but they hadn’t had a cat or dog in years so he didn’t really take it seriously. Didn’t think twice about taking Ben to the zoo.”

With a sharp laugh, Finn leaned against the counter. “Please tell me he tried to attack a lion.”

Rey scoffed, fiddling with her mascara. They’d already done her makeup when they’d colored the bite marks. “I think he knew to pick on something his own size. Which was why,” she said delightedly, “Ben had a very unfortunate experience in the insectarium.”

“No.”

“Yes.” She hadn’t been born until decades later, but it was easy to picture it all the same. “Han said in the time it took to turn his back, Ben escaped from his stroller, climbed into the nearest enclosure, and caught a spider. He was busy trying to bite it.”

“Did he?”

Rey nodded. “But it bit him back.” She shouldn’t find it funny, especially considering what she had to say next. “It was a huge, hairy, venomous thing. Vampire children are even more indestructible than their parents, so it did no harm. Scared him, though. To this day, you should see how fast he leaves a room when he sees a spider.”

“That,” a new voice said, “was classified information.” 

An enormous, mildly irritated vampire filled the doorway. 

The bond pulsed a fierce, almost paralyzing shock of happiness. _Will it always be this way?_ she’d once wondered, because it had yet to _not_ happen. Even when she was pissed. Even when she’d spent the whole day fantasizing about her leftover lasagna only to come home and catch Ben eating it on the couch. 

_I saw my own death_ , Ben later admitted, new lasagna cooked and Rey’s belly full of both pasta and forgiveness. _I could literally tell when you decided to smother me in my sleep._

Even then. Even as she watched his traitorous lips close around the fork, even as she decided he would never see another dawn—even then, she’d been happy to see him. 

He felt it, too. Sparing a single glance at Finn, Ben _was_ irritated, but it was as small and fleeting as a breath. Underneath that, his pleasure in seeing her felt like a familiar caress. He always carried a minor tension in the time they spent apart—she’d caught glimpses of it, a footprint quickly lost in the sand: _is she okay, what if something, if I can’t_ —that could only be erased by her presence. 

She had no idea how much he’d overheard, but he’d obviously caught the end. Her befoulment of his Very Serious Vampire façade. 

Oh well. 

Rey decided to begin with the most pertinent concern. “Scott told me something very interesting about dinner.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Did he?”

“Yes.” She used her hands to bolster herself onto the counter, feet hanging loosely, heels knocking against the cabinet. She’d yet to put on her stilettos. “I had a hard time believing that he was telling the truth because _surely_ you saw my note.”

“I’m,” Finn interrupted, sidling toward the door, “going to go.” 

There was an eyeroll worthy moment where Ben pretended not to know he blocked the only exit. Rey couldn’t hear exactly what Finn whispered, but she caught _spider_ and _group text_ and that was enough to snap Ben’s jaw shut. He reluctantly moved, and Finn looked back at Rey.

“I’ll let Rose know you’re doing your thing.” _Your ridiculous thing_ was unspoken, but Rey heard it anyway. “Your costume,” he poked at Ben’s bicep, then laughed when Ben flinched, “is behind the curtain. Don’t be late.” 

Ben reached behind him and blindly shut the door. They were alone.

Rey stayed where she was. “Hello.”

“Hello,” he said back. 

Unbothered by the silence, she took a moment to appreciate the view. Someone had already done his hair—it was messy and long, curling past his ears. He hadn’t changed from his trip to the gym, which meant the rare treat of seeing him in shorts. For a man that made a living off being naked, he was oddly maidenly about exposing his calves. 

And suddenly he was not there but _here_ , stepping between her legs and cupping her elbows, frowning at her forearms. “Why are you all…spotted?” His eyes hardened. “Did Poe make you feed that fucking—”

“Bites,” she interrupted. “From you.”

He frowned, rubbing his thumb over an especially lumpy patch of latex. She shook him off before he could smear it. “That’s not how it works.”

“I know,” she sighed, “but we are at the mercy of the public’s horny opinion. Didn’t you see the poll?”

“I never look at those things.”

“Well, surprise.”

He pulled away so he could look at her legs. She wriggled them, and he huffed. Confused. “This is… _why_ , though?”

“You know better than to ask that question. Why is the orc down the hall a tugboat captain? Why did they want to see the mermaid slap her tail in organic butter?” She shrugged. “They wanted you to be extra chompy and it’s impractical, so this is what we get. We tried to avoid putting them where you’ll actually bite. I’m sure they taste horrible.” She smiled a smile Ben didn’t see when he tried to step between her knees again. The pencil skirt didn’t allow for much room. “Did you see the script?”

She knew he had. It was just amusing to see his brain try to answer while also problem-solving the business of her skirt. 

“Spanking,” he said absently, hands on her hem, investigating. “I get to bite you when my ass is red enough. Is this stretchy?”

“No, but I believe in your ingenuity.”

Ben stopped fussing long enough to think, blinking slowly. Then in a rush almost too quick to register, he plucked her off the counter, pushed her skirt up until it bunched above her waist, put her _back_ on the counter, and pulled her arms around his neck. 

“How’s that?” he asked, overly pleased with himself. 

“Mm.” She pretended to consider, scootching as close as she possibly could. “Sufficient.”

His body was a warm, warm heat where they touched. Her fingers teased out the over-sprayed stiffness of his hair until it was soft again. He let her, the backs of his knuckles rubbing idly against the buttons of her blouse. Up and down. A question that could be answered or ignored. 

She wondered if this would ever change, too: the way the world and its demands faded away when they touched. 

They hadn’t had sex this morning. They rarely did. Not because of the upcoming shoot, but because Rey was always too in her head to enjoy it. It didn’t matter how fantastic Ben’s lips felt in bed: she couldn’t trust herself not to worry about traffic or if she had until Thursday or Friday to finish the report and had they remembered to put away the chicken? She’d better check. The demands of her day always screamed loudest before her coffee.

Her mind felt clear now. She didn’t know what they were doing, but that was best. All that mattered was that she liked it. That it might be making her wet. 

Ben’s fingers kept returning to one set of buttons in particular. He plucked at them, groaning softly when she scratched the back of his neck. “How much time do we have?”

“Not enough.” She told herself to stop tracing the dip of his spine. “You still need to change.”

“So you’re saying there’s a justifiable reason for me to get naked?” 

She meant to laugh; it came out too breathily. “We’re literally scheduled to have sex in twenty minutes.”

That should have been the end of it. She nuzzled against the side of his neck, instead. She told herself to find it comforting and it was—he smelled clean, like lime and bergamot, but also like Ben. The person she loved best. 

“I see your point,” Ben said, his breath catching when she gave his skin a small lick. For science’s sake. What noise would he make next? “I’m also very hungry.”

“Good,” she murmured, kissing lightly and trying to stop. 

He pulled away reluctantly. His eyes were already darker. It was fascinating to watch: this closely, she could see the ink of his pupil spilling outwards, a steady leak. He was softly panting, and his hands stroked her back. 

“In twenty minutes—” he kissed her cheek, then almost helplessly, her mouth, “—we’re theirs. Until then, I want to be something else.”

“What’s that?” 

“Your husband.” 

It was still such a beautiful, wonderful thrill to hear him say it. To know it was true and not just a word from a script. She was struck stupid by it, sometimes—in the middle of shopping, halfway through a call and she’d think _I’m married_. 

The wedding wasn’t a fever dream. She really had stood with Ben in his grandmother’s garden. Rey had a ring and a husband and nothing could ever make her forget the words of his vow. Or the love that poured from the bond when he said them. 

So much had happened since. She’d finished school. Found a part-time job in her field. Poe had finally moved his business beyond his house. They filmed in a studio—an _actual_ studio—with multiple crews and bigger production budgets. Rey was no longer tasked with staging the sets or cleaning up messes of a bodily nature; when he could be convinced, Scott picked up the slack. Ben had signed an exclusive contract and so, incidentally, had she. 

Their debut was popular. The _most_ popular, and Poe had been quick to capitalize. Kira and Kylo were asked to return for a holiday special. When that video dropped to numbers just as high as the first, they filmed another. And then another. Their popularity grew until they found themselves where they were now: porn stars with polls and actual fans who voted on them. 

It never failed to blow her mind. 

Her legs were open, stretched around Ben’s waist. He was still waiting for an answer. 

She snuck her hands underneath the elastic of his shorts, shamelessly grabbing the ass she’d get to spank. Rocking against him, she couldn’t sound innocent when she asked, “My husband is hungry?”

Sneaking another kiss, he hooked her legs up higher. “For his wife.” 

“Maybe you should be patient.”

“No.”

She watched him reach for her blouse again. He flicked at the button between her tits, then looked up with an unspoken, hopeful question. _May I?_

“Is that where you want?” she asked, and Rose would be mad that she’d already stained her underwear, but Rey couldn’t stop the inevitable. She knew what he wanted. How it would go. She knew they’d have to be quick and that they were already running the risk of getting caught and she knew she wanted it anyway. 

He cupped her tit, caressing it through her shirt. His answer. 

“A quick drink,” she warned breathlessly, already leaning back so he could eagerly unbutton just enough to expose the cup of her bra. One hand peeled it back to pop out her tit; the other went between her legs, pushing her panties aside so he could slip in a finger, crooked and pumping through the mess she’d already made. Her own hands had their missions, too: she rubbed her clit and let her other fingers truly destroy whatever styling he’d sat through because he kept licking her nipple, enough to make it pebble up and ache and it was impossible not to moan on every exhale, that pressure in her clit expanding until she was nothing but needful and crying for it. 

“Love it,” he slurred, stopping to suck a desperate bruise on the curve of her breast. “Love when you let me drink from your tit.” 

“I love it, too,” she gritted, “but you need to actually fucking _do it_.” 

Obedient, he sucked her nipple, stretching his mouth wide, and her back arched, inviting it, ready for his fangs to do what he’d promised. 

Rey squeaked when he bit—not from pain, but because it cost everything to be quiet. She came at the sound of his first swallow, shivering and watching as his throat worked and a tiny, tiny bead of blood escaped the corner of his mouth. 

She had to close her eyes, then. Because she wanted to keep watching and if that’s what she wanted, that’s exactly what Ben would do and they had to be responsible. They were supposed to film. Someone was probably gathering up the courage to knock at the door. 

Ben finished with a few wet, thorough laps. 

Their breaths were loud in the new quiet. Ever the gentleman, Ben tucked her tit away with an affectionate pat, buttoning her up and leaving only long enough to fetch a baby wipe. She let him clean between her legs as she rested, the back of her hand on her forehead like the worn-out woman she absolutely was not allowed to be. Their work day hadn’t even begun. 

Large hands tugged at her elbows, pulling up upright again. Rey opened one eye and then the other, sighing with fond exasperation when she saw Ben’s face. “You’ve stained your teeth.”

He didn’t seem phased. “I’ll brush them.” 

“How many fake bites did I lose?”

Ben checked the floor, alarming her when he started to count. But he stopped, grinning, and laughed when she slapped his shoulder. “I was good. Very controlled.” 

Her tit still ached beneath her bra. She knew from experience, though, that he wasn’t lying. He’d restrained himself, only taking enough to ease the burn of his hunger. He knew how long he’d have to wait. It took forever to redden his ass. 

“Is this weird?” she asked suddenly. 

Ben was too used to this question to be startled. He kissed her on her forehead. “No.” 

“You’re sure?”

“I am.” 

Funny, how much those two words meant. 

She wasn’t excited to explain the delay to Rose, but with any luck they’d be forgiven. Scott would probably join them for their snack breaks and she’d have to remember to invite him over for dinner. She looked forward to seeing Ben sit gingerly in the car when they drove home. They needed to talk about what to get his parents for their anniversary, and once Ben insisted he didn’t know for the fifth and final time, they’d pivot to houses. She’d found a cute one. Next to a lake. 

Her life. Weird was probably too mild of a word, but Ben was sure. Which meant she was, too. 

Someone hesitantly knocked on the door. 

Rey turned to her fanged husband. “Ready for whatever happens next?”

“Always,” he said. “As long as I’m with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's surreal, that this fic is over. You might have been here from the beginning or maybe you came to it much later--either way, I'm so grateful that you stopped to read.
> 
> You never know what someone's going through on the other side of the screen. Each kind, supportive comment you made on a chapter bolstered me through some rough times. Sometimes I read them in a parking lot; sometimes I read them as I overcooked my dinner; sometimes I read them and ugly cried. A little dramatic to say, but true. You may not think much of what you write in a comment or in a Tweet, but they have a real impact on whoever reads them. Not just for me, and not just for fic. It goes for anything. 
> 
> Thank you very much for being here! I'll miss our porn stars, but I promise you they're very happy. <3 
> 
> I'm [@talltig](https://twitter.com/talltig) on Twitter, if you'd like to say hi.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Need {art}](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26118898) by [altocello](https://archiveofourown.org/users/altocello/pseuds/altocello)




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